the way it was, her own place, and so she and Murdock loved somewhere in between. They’d had their quarrels. But he never liked to be angry with her, and they had their own houses to retreat to and cool off in, and they’d come to miss each other quick enough.
Murdock shaved carefully. His ruddy face was florid from weather and wind and, lately, liquor. His hair was grey, but at the temples still a trace of his nickname, and in the grizzled hair of his chest.
He would never let himself be an old man shuffling along the street or playing bingo in the mall, they seemed like aliens sometimes, those fellas. Their limbs were shot of course, God love them, he understood that, the toll of factory and pit, all those wracking years break you down, cripple you. But the first sign he couldn’t get through a day by himself, he would disappear like a sick animal, up into the mountain woods where even his bones would be lost.
Wasn’t quick better, the sudden unexpected collapse? Too long in decline and people forgot you’d once been an able man, a man to lean on, to pull you up, to be awake for you when you couldn’t but sleep.
A T THE FOOT of the ladder steps to his low cellar, cracks of light showed back under the sills and the smell of cold, dug-out earth was strong. He groped for a string cord. A bulb dangling over a crock lit up. The crock sat on a long flat stone like those of the foundation. Willard and all that talk about rum-running and drug-running, as if they had any damn thing in common. Murdock lifted the lid an inch: ouch, last year’s pungent mash. He hadn’t cooked any liquor since she died, his own good silver, there was no pleasure in it, he drank bought whisky instead. Since he didn’t care for hunting, for killing animals, he had bartered a few bottles here and there for a share of venison, a portion of moose, a few partridge or rabbits, a poached salmon.
But here was a bottle he’d forgotten, he held it up to the light bulb: clear in the steam of his breath. I’m surprised, you know, Rosaire had said after the first taste, how smooth it is, and you
made
it. When she was ill and in bed, she’d asked for a shot in her water glass. It set her coughing, tearing up, but she said, Thank you, Murdock, a taste I’ll surely remember.
Back upstairs, he set about restoring the neat, clean rooms that had been his way until she died—the home not of a hopeless bachelor but a man who looked after himself. I don’t need a woman for my
house,
he’d told Rosaire, holding her in his arms. I just need you for
myself.
Well, dear, she said, I don’t every morning need a man in my house either, so maybe we can have fun in the middle somewhere, eh? And there were her ashes in a small canister on his chest of drawers. He had yet to make a beautiful box for them. That had seemed too final, a formal storing away.
Fog hung well up the back field, frozen, the air blank as paper. The walls of his house seemed so thin to him. You could crouch in corners, but it was no cover, something you didn’t want would always reach you.
Could anyone describe the kind of absence he felt? It hollowed him out, a cavernous space, every day he teetered on its edge.
The sun, oh, Murdock, it’s so low these afternoons, Rosaire said that December, her head turned on the pillow toward the window’s brassy light. I won’t see it high again, will I?
Why couldn’t Rosaire have died on a summer day instead of a night of blowing snow? He had to leave her on a night like that, she loved warmth and light, he drove slowly toward home on the slick highway, flakes floating like crude ash in his headlights. Before he reached the bridge, he pulled into a restaurant where they’d often stopped together for its view of the fjord-like strait and the long mountain running in from the sea. It was deserted and he sat with coffee by a big window, looking out, the dark water obscured, snow whirling like his mind, memories rushing past him, he could not
Murdock shaved carefully. His ruddy face was florid from weather and wind and, lately, liquor. His hair was grey, but at the temples still a trace of his nickname, and in the grizzled hair of his chest.
He would never let himself be an old man shuffling along the street or playing bingo in the mall, they seemed like aliens sometimes, those fellas. Their limbs were shot of course, God love them, he understood that, the toll of factory and pit, all those wracking years break you down, cripple you. But the first sign he couldn’t get through a day by himself, he would disappear like a sick animal, up into the mountain woods where even his bones would be lost.
Wasn’t quick better, the sudden unexpected collapse? Too long in decline and people forgot you’d once been an able man, a man to lean on, to pull you up, to be awake for you when you couldn’t but sleep.
A T THE FOOT of the ladder steps to his low cellar, cracks of light showed back under the sills and the smell of cold, dug-out earth was strong. He groped for a string cord. A bulb dangling over a crock lit up. The crock sat on a long flat stone like those of the foundation. Willard and all that talk about rum-running and drug-running, as if they had any damn thing in common. Murdock lifted the lid an inch: ouch, last year’s pungent mash. He hadn’t cooked any liquor since she died, his own good silver, there was no pleasure in it, he drank bought whisky instead. Since he didn’t care for hunting, for killing animals, he had bartered a few bottles here and there for a share of venison, a portion of moose, a few partridge or rabbits, a poached salmon.
But here was a bottle he’d forgotten, he held it up to the light bulb: clear in the steam of his breath. I’m surprised, you know, Rosaire had said after the first taste, how smooth it is, and you
made
it. When she was ill and in bed, she’d asked for a shot in her water glass. It set her coughing, tearing up, but she said, Thank you, Murdock, a taste I’ll surely remember.
Back upstairs, he set about restoring the neat, clean rooms that had been his way until she died—the home not of a hopeless bachelor but a man who looked after himself. I don’t need a woman for my
house,
he’d told Rosaire, holding her in his arms. I just need you for
myself.
Well, dear, she said, I don’t every morning need a man in my house either, so maybe we can have fun in the middle somewhere, eh? And there were her ashes in a small canister on his chest of drawers. He had yet to make a beautiful box for them. That had seemed too final, a formal storing away.
Fog hung well up the back field, frozen, the air blank as paper. The walls of his house seemed so thin to him. You could crouch in corners, but it was no cover, something you didn’t want would always reach you.
Could anyone describe the kind of absence he felt? It hollowed him out, a cavernous space, every day he teetered on its edge.
The sun, oh, Murdock, it’s so low these afternoons, Rosaire said that December, her head turned on the pillow toward the window’s brassy light. I won’t see it high again, will I?
Why couldn’t Rosaire have died on a summer day instead of a night of blowing snow? He had to leave her on a night like that, she loved warmth and light, he drove slowly toward home on the slick highway, flakes floating like crude ash in his headlights. Before he reached the bridge, he pulled into a restaurant where they’d often stopped together for its view of the fjord-like strait and the long mountain running in from the sea. It was deserted and he sat with coffee by a big window, looking out, the dark water obscured, snow whirling like his mind, memories rushing past him, he could not
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