February by Lisa Moore Page B

building and the door closed behind him. After a very long time a woman came out and there was a man with her and he had his arm around her. He brought her over to a Buick and opened the door and the woman got in, and the man trotted around the front and got in himself and started the car, and they drove off.
    Helen said, Okay.
    Okay?
    Let’s go, Helen said.
    You’re not going in, Louise said.
    I should get home, Helen said. She blew her nose as hard as she could. Jesus, Louise, she said.
    I know, honey, Louise said. You’re my baby sister.
    And now they were sitting in the car outside Helen’s front door. Louise’s husband was a car salesman and they’d always driven a Cadillac because Cadillacs were big and safe, and Louise liked a luxury car.
    A pickup truck came up behind them. The road was narrow because it wasn’t plowed properly, and the truck waited for them to move.
    Louise watched the truck in the rearview. She narrowed her eyes.
    The guy tapped his horn once.
    Go around us, you bloody fool, Louise whispered. Then she pressed the button and her window rolled down and she put her hand out and waved him around. Her hand outside the window did two slow turns and she pointed with one finger. The finger looked stern and mocking in her black glove. She drew her hand back inside the car. The cold air came in and all the noises of the street. She took two fingers of her glove in her teeth and pulled it off and then she tugged off the other glove, one finger at a time.
    The driver of the pickup didn’t attempt to go around them because there wasn’t enough room. Only one side of the street had been plowed. Louise opened her purse with a loud snap and found the pack of cigarettes again without taking her eyes off the rearview.
    Look at that fool, she said. There was a group of teenagers coming down the hill too. They had their coats open and their breath was visible in the air and they were bright-cheeked and loud. A scrawny girl at the back was full of shrill giggles. She was running to catch up with her friends and her boots slapped loudly on the pavement.
    Helen knew the mail in the mailbox was a valentine from Cal. He always sent a card on Valentine’s Day. He liked to mark all the occasions with a card. He liked the card to arrive more or less on time.
    The lighter popped and Louise lit her cigarette and turned her head and blew smoke out onto the street. Then she tilted the mirror to watch the guy in the truck.
    He pressed his hand into the horn. He kept the horn blaring for as long as he could, and then he let up and then he pressed it again. There was traffic behind him now and he couldn’t back up. And he couldn’t go around. The kids coming down the hill had stopped and gently collided with one another, their heads all turned, trying to see what was going on.
    I guess I better go on inside, Helen said. But she didn’t move. She felt like she couldn’t move. Or that she had moved, had got out of the car, had lived out the rest of her life, and had died and was dead and was back in the car, a ghost, or something without musculature or bone. Something that could never move again.
    The guy was out of the truck now and he slammed his door. He was in a fury and he brought the flat of his hand down on the roof of Louise’s car and it made a hollow boom . He bent down to look Louise in the eye and his face was very close. But Louise kept looking straight ahead. She took a draw on her cigarette and blew smoke at the windshield. The man might have kissed her temple if he were a couple of inches closer. His eyes were a pale watery hazel and he was bald, a pale face with high cheekbones and a weak chin, and his lips were pressed tight.
    You’re blocking the goddamn road, he said.
    My sister’s husband was on the Ocean Ranger , Louise said. We were just up identifying the body. But actually she didn’t go in.
    Louise, Helen said.
    The man stood back from the window.
    We’re just sitting here now because we’re