by Fran Kimmel
“That’s what Hannah said.”
Ellie stopped cold, incredulous. Her son’s shattered heart—the girl had found her way even in there? “You talked to Hannah about Melissa?”
“She saw us together at church.”
“Melissa was at church?” She’d missed this too.
“Yeah. I told Hannah she was my girlfriend and that we broke up, and she said I could pick better friends. She seems older than eleven.”
Yes, she does. Ellie decided she should say nothing else—not about Hannah, not about that package she’d seen Danny slip back into his pocket before leaving the store. If she was starting over she could start right here and keep her mouth shut, so she blew her son a kiss and walked away.
Eleven
Eric’s high beams lit up a snowman when he pulled into the driveway at a quarter past five. He’d taken longer than he’d planned with Gerry, whose truck battery was too fried to come back to life. On his way home, he’d phoned Betty. She’d just left the station where, she said, the constables seemed on edge. Of course they did. Assaults on little girls had a way of taxing resources. Wilson was out on bail, back home, and likely ironing more shirts, his preliminary court date set for February 16.
Instead of going straight home, Eric stopped in at the Style Loft to pick up a few Christmas gifts for Hannah. He should have consulted Ellie first, but something stopped him from having the conversation. Ellie somehow knew the right things. How to do the girl’s hair, make her a nice room, or tease out a smile. But for that, he’d had to repeatedly assure her, just for a few days, that’s all this is, as if his promise was the duct tape holding her together. No, he couldn’t allow her to find out just how consumed his thoughts were by the girl and what was to happen to her.
Laurie Haddon, the shop’s owner, was another kind of problem, poking and prying as she rang up his purchases, stealing sideways glances at his still-swollen knuckles.
“A lovely sweater choice, Sergeant Nyland.”
“Not a sergeant, Laurie. Just Eric.”
“And such a beautiful coat. It came in with last week’s order. She’ll love the faux-fur trim, and if she wants a different look, the hood zips on and off—here like this. Who did you say it was for?”
He changed the subject by asking Laurie about her dimwitted son, the one who’d been caught twice spray-painting the word vagina—spelled v-e-g-i-n-a—on the stone wall in front of the seniors’ complex. That shut her up, although he presumed she had already plucked Hannah’s story off the street as it rolled through town.
He entered the house empty-handed, leaving the packages in the trunk of the car where the dead cat had been just a few nights before. He took off his coat, patting his pocket to be sure his keys were still there and patting the dog who ambled into the entryway to say hello.
“Something smells good,” he said.
“Macaroni and cheese,” Ellie called over, pulling the casserole from the oven, nothing else in her voice other than macaroni and cheese, which bolstered his courage considerably.
There was a strange calm about the place. They were all in the same room, the kids and Walter gathered around the supper table, already set for their family of six. Sammy bopped up and down in his seat, but he was right there beside them, not off in a corner staring into space. Hannah leaned forward on her elbows on either side of her knife and fork, her hands under her chin.
“And then what happened?” she asked Walter, who was digging in his pocket for a rock.
“Finish the story, Grandpa,” Daniel said.
“What story?” Walter blinked like the lights had just come on.
“The one about the duck!” Daniel could barely contain himself. “You lowered the bucket . . .”
Walter smacked his lips. “That’s just what we did. We lowered the bucket and that duck hopped right in, we hoisted her up and out, and she shook herself off and waddled away, as if falling down a well happened every other day.”
Hannah laughed unabashedly. Walter looked up, surprised, as if he’d heard nothing like the sound of it in his sixty-some years in this house. Daniel smiled, hands folded across his chest in satisfaction, although he’d heard his grandpa’s stories a thousand times. Eric could not remember the last time his son took such interest.
“We’re eating early tonight,” Ellie said cheerily, brushing her hair off her face with her oven-mitted hand. “We’re all starving.”
“No wonder.” Eric walked up to her and kissed her on the cheek. “Pretty handsome snowman out there. Anyone know how he got here?”
“Sammy,” Daniel and Hannah piped up in unison.
“Is that right? Sammy, you invited him here?”
Sammy simply said, “I made him.”
Eric felt his shoulders relax for the first time all day. “Really? Who knew you were such a great snowman maker? What’s his name?”
“Robert,” Sammy yelled. The other kids chuckled. Thorn was back under Hannah’s chair, licking her bare toes.
“They were all in on it.” Ellie carried the casserole dish to the table and plopped it down on the hot-mat. “It was Hannah’s idea.” She caught his eye and shrugged her shoulders, as if she had no say in the matter.
Eric stood at the sink and washed up, hot water stinging his bruised fists. “Well, I’m thinking Robert the Snowman will be with us a long time. There’s a whole lot of winter ahead. Maybe he needs a brother to hang out with. Or a son. Robert Junior.”
“Or a girlfriend,” Daniel said, drawing a curvy figure with his hands. “I’d like to see Sammy make that one.”
Sammy jumped out of his seat and ran to the front closet.
“Whoa, not now, slugger.” Eric strode over to collect him. “We’ve got to have supper first. Maybe tomorrow, okay?”
Eric maneuvered Sammy back to his seat by getting up close, stretching his arms wide, and taking small steps forward while Sammy backed up. That same technique had worked with Stump too, Eric’s favourite among the horses that had trotted in and out of his childhood. “Will one of you kids get a glass of water for everybody?” Ellie was back at the counter, tossing the salad with the giant wooden hands.
Hannah sprinted over to the exact right cupboard.
“Danny, you get the ketchup and the salad dressings.” Daniel jumped right up too. “And the mayonnaise for your grandpa.”
By this point, Walter had stuffed his napkin in his collar, waiting, fork in one fist, knife in the other. There was nothing for Eric to do but to sink into his place at the table, grateful, while the others zinged past, each with their jobs.
The table was ready, everyone seated except Hannah, who was transporting the last glass of water, Eric’s, taking small careful steps as she passed behind Sammy and Walter, so as not to spill. But then her toe caught an edge, Eric couldn’t see on what, and she started to go down, grabbing the back of Walter’s chair to keep from falling. The glass jumped out of her hand, shattering on the floor into an obscene array of pieces.
Eric leapt up and commanded her to stand still. He heard nothing at all, not Ellie’s gasp or Sammy banging on the table. He was seeing her small toes, glass shards glistening in the lake on the floor. But he spoke too harshly, may have screamed, in fact, because she was cowering now, backing away from him; she had that exact same look she’d had in the back seat of the car as they rounded the curve toward Nigel’s house.
With chunks of glass all around her, behind her, she was about to step down and slice a hole in her heel. There was nothing else to do but reach out for her. When she threw her arms up to fend off the blow, anger splashed through him. He saw himself in her actions—his arms had shot up like that, a long time ago, Walter coming at him. He hoisted her off the floor, out of harm’s way. She weighed less than air.
“Sorry, kiddo.” He set her down on the kitchen counter. “I didn’t mean to yell. I didn’t want you to cut
your bare feet, that’s all.”
Hannah hugged her chest, looking down. He turned around to see his family at the table. They were staring wide-eyed to see what he would do next, as if he’d thrown the glass himself just to hear it crack.
“I’ll get the broom,” Ellie said, not moving.
“Why isn’t she wearing socks?” His voice lashed out, gruff and uneven. He reached down, a hot sting between his toes, and plucked a diamond dipped in red out of his work sock.
“They were wet, Eric. From building the snowman. They’re hanging in the bathroom. Is that all right with you?”
“It was not an accusation.”
Ellie sighed. “Well, what was it then?”
Hannah threw her hands over her face and burst into noisy sobs, the same desperate wet sound he’d heard come out of her at Wilson’s house.
He didn’t dare touch her heaving body, perched on the counter where he’d dropped her. He scanned the breadth of his table for reinforcement, the picture unsettling him even more. Sammy perfectly still—choosing this precise moment to be unflappable—and Daniel too, suddenly devoid of teenaged counsel. Thorn under the table, right where Hannah should be, licking her chair leg furiously. Walter stretching his arm across the table, furtively inching the macaroni dish toward him by the loop on the hot mat.
Ellie stood, but instead of going to Hannah, or finding her a Kleenex at least, she went to fetch the broom. Hannah didn’t let up crying as Ellie swept around her with long, efficient strokes, pushing the wet splinters into the dustpan and getting down on her knees to sop up the spill and scoop the tiniest bits into a swirl of paper towel. She gingerly tweezed the tips of her fingers for a few wayward slivers, Eric backing up to get out of her way. Then she threw the soggy ruins into the garbage can under the kitchen sink and leaned on the broom, scanning the floor closely.
“I think I got it all,” she said above Hannah’s sobs. “Can anyone see more pieces?”
Not a sound from the table. Hannah, face still covered, replaced the worst of the racket with man-sized hiccups mixed in with noisy sniffing and gulping noises.
Ellie took her time putting the broom away before she stepped in front of the girl. “Would you like to come to the table now?” she asked breezily. “Hannah, look at me.”
Hannah gulped and sniffed and croaked like a dying frog, watery eyes blinking at Ellie. Her face was a spectacular patchwork of Christmas red, snot dripping from her nose.
“Can, can I go to my room?”
Eric moved in beside Ellie. “Come on now. It was just a little accident. It’s all fixed now.”
Ellie dug her fingernails through the arm of his sweater. “You go right ahead, Hannah. Take as long as you need.” She lifted her down and whispered, “I’ll save you some supper.” Hannah scampered off, Thorn’s claws scrambling on the linoleum, doing his best to catch up.
Ellie sat down at the table, placed her napkin on her lap, and took a long drink of water. Eric slumped against the counter. He was astounded by how fast things could turn.
“Earth to Danny,” Ellie was saying. His son looked dazed, like he was waking from a coma. “Why don’t you get your macaroni and then slide the dish to me. I’ll help Sammy.”
Daniel started to reach for it, then changed his mind and thumped his arms down hard, rattling his empty plate. “May I please be excused?” he asked defiantly, as if expecting a fight.
“You certainly may,” Ellie answered without a second’s delay.
Sammy shot up, knees on his seat, staring after his brother now striding toward the hallway.
“And you too, Sammy. You can go with your brother if you want.”
He hopped down off his chair and ran after Daniel, holding his undone drawstring to keep his sweatpants from sliding down.
Ellie wrestled the macaroni dish from Walter, who had polished off a fair chunk already, and scooped a spoonful onto her plate.
They had all gone into Hannah’s room, the kids, the dog. Eric could feel the wet under his armpits soak into the wool of his sweater.
“Maybe I should go check on them,” he said.
“Or come eat your dinner,” she answered, still readying her plate.
“What kind of pie?” Walter chimed in.
“We’re not having pie tonight, Dad,” Ellie said. “Would you like some salad? There’s mayonnaise.”
Eric heard an odd sound coming from his own throat, a humming noise that he swallowed back down.
“What about the lemon meringue?” Walter said.
“That was yesterday,” Ellie lied. She never made pies, certainly not a lemon meringue. “Tonight it’s chocolate ice cream. With cherries on top if you like. But you should have some salad first, Dad.”
How could his wife be so insensitive about Hannah? Eric strained to hear noises coming from behind her door. Was she still crying? What were the boys doing in there?
Ellie spooned a blob of mayonnaise on top of Walter’s lettuce, laughing at something he said to her. Eric left them to their supper and went down the hallway until he was leaning his ear against the cold wood of her door, a sliver of white light from the other side washing over his socked feet.
He heard whispers and laughter, Daniel’s, a rustling and then a series of thumps, Sammy jumping on her bed maybe, Thorn moaning, like he did when he managed to flip on his back and stick his paws in the air. Then he heard the girl, a torrent of words that he couldn’t make out. There was no lingering misery in that voice, not a gulp in the mix. Daniel laughed again, a deep sturdy sound; Sammy yelling more, more.
He thought about sisters and brothers and their dogs, holed up in bedrooms all over the world, teetering on the edge of another universe, one that adults were not privy to. It didn’t make a damn difference if you were an ex-cop, a trained investigator, you would always be one step behind. He backtracked to the kitchen and sat at the table.
“They’re okay.” He stared at his plate.
“I know,” Ellie said.
How? He looked at her closely. “How did you know?”
She was staring back at him, clear eyed, giving nothing away. “Would you like me to get you a glass of water?” she asked.
“God no.” He could feel his forehead heat up.
She covered her mouth but couldn’t hide the sound, snorting into her hand. He could tell she was trying, really trying, to be delicate and failing miserably. Her laughter floated above him, around him, rising to full volume. He caught the sound in the air and let himself go, the pair of them hee-hawing like jackasses getting out of the rain.
“What’s got your buns in a knot,” Walter scoffed. He’d lined up his rocks in the shape of a smile.
That set them off again. Finally, Ellie wiped her eyes, patted her face, and straightened her blouse. Eric swung his legs out from under his chair and strode over to her side of the table. He wanted to lift her up and feel her in his arms, but the moment had clearly passed. He rested his hand on the curve of her shoulder. She covered it with her own and gave it a squeeze. He could have stayed like that all night, his hand under hers.
“I bought her a few things at the Style Loft today,” he whispered, overly cautious. If their hullabaloo hadn’t brought the kids out yet, nothing would. “A sweater. And a coat. I thought we could wrap them for under the tree.”
She tensed, or he imagined it, a slight shudder beneath his fingers, but then she stood quickly. “Help me serve up, Eric,” she said, all business again.
“What?”
“We’ll make it a picnic. They can eat in Hannah’s room.”
She flapped around the table, stacking plates, bringing dishes together like a church buffet. His beautiful wife, another unsolved case he would have to let stand.
—
Eric snuck the gifts into the house after Ellie had tucked Sammy in, and while Daniel and Hannah sat side by
side at the kitchen table, distracted by noisy YouTube videos of Mr. Bean getting a Christmas turkey stuck on his head.
Coming in from the cold with the large package in his arms, Eric grabbed Ellie’s hand and hauled her down the hall and into their bedroom. When he first pulled the jacket and sweater out of the frozen Style Loft bag, holding them up to her expectantly, she sucked in her breath and tried not to think about her disgusting scene in the drugstore. All she could say was “We don’t know her taste.”
She hated herself in that moment, that silly “sticks and stones” rhyme popping into her head. She would have preferred broken bones to the slump she’d made of his shoulders, the way his eyes refused to meet hers. “Sorry,” she said. “These are very nice.”
“I thought we should get her a few presents,” Eric said, as if this wouldn’t have occurred to her. “Laurie Haddon was her usual piece of work. She wanted the juicy details to serve up with her Christmas turkey.”
Ellie smiled, rolling her eyes. “That woman lives for gossip. Hannah is none of her business.”
“Of course not.”
“And neither are we.”
He sighed. “That’s right, El. Neither are we.”
Of course, he knew she was thinking of Sammy, the unanswered questions that followed them everywhere. Ellie wanted to reach out and touch the side of her husband’s cheek, but she went over to her dresser instead. “We’ll need to come up with a stocking too,” she said, her back to him. “And some little presents. We must have some things here we can give her.”
She rummaged through drawers, through the closet, through the shoebox of junk they kept under the chair, while Eric sat on the bed and watched. She found a new clear nail polish, a package of glitter stickers, heart keychain, a sample perfume in a vial, and a Kleenex packet covered in daisies. She dug through her purse for the fifty-percent-off hand lotions too.
Eric fingered through the pile that she’d dumped on his lap. “This is good, right?” he asked. “She’ll like this stuff?”
