Sweetwater by Roxana Robinson

Author:Roxana Robinson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9780307431882
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2007-12-18T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

On the way back from town no one spoke. The rain had stopped, though the sky was still overcast. Isabel, in the middle again, kept herself narrow, trying not to touch the body on either side. Whit, beside her, was like stone.

When they left the paved road, the truck slowed, bumping and sliding over the slippery surface, the ruts still slick with rain. Whit drove soberly; sprays of muddy water sloshed heavily on either side.

It was late when they got back. Whitney pulled up outside Acorn; Paul opened his door before the truck stopped. He got out without looking at his brother.

“See you later,” he said from outside the truck.

“Thanks for driving,” Isabel said, climbing out after him. She did not look back.

“Yup,” Whitney answered, “see you at dinner.”

The rains had darkened the day, and as the truck pulled off, its red taillights gleamed in the dull air. It seemed already like evening.

The cabin was dark and chilly. Isabel turned on the lights, but the rooms were still shadowy, and gloom gathered in the corners.

“Want some tea?” She picked up the heavy kettle.

“No,” Paul said, heading down the hall. Isabel filled the kettle and set it on the burner. She sat down to wait. There was no sound from the bedroom.

The awakening kettle made a series of watery clucks, then a plume of thickening steam rose from its spout. Isabel picked it up by the heavy coil of wire wrapped around the handle. As she did so, a red flash bit into her: her fingers turned suddenly brilliant with pain.

She dropped the kettle with a rackety clang, sucking in her breath. She turned on the tap and put her hand into the icy stream. The cold moved into the burn, numbing it. Isabel turned her hand back and forth under the water, feeling the coolness sweep into her fingers.

Paul appeared in the doorway, his face forbidding. “What happened?” he asked.

“I burned my hand,” Isabel said.

“How?”

Isabel gestured with her chin. “I picked up the kettle.”

“Bare-handed?”

“I thought—” It sounded stupid now. “I thought the coil would be cool.”

“You picked up a boiling kettle and thought the metal handle wouldn’t be hot?” Paul demanded.

Isabel said nothing.

“Metal is a conductor of heat,” Paul said. “That’s why kettles are made of it.”

Isabel turned her hand beneath the water.

“I’ll see if there’s any ointment,” Paul said. He sounded annoyed. “We may have to go up to the lodge.”

“I don’t need ointment,” Isabel said. “It’s not serious.” She took her hand from the water; at once the red glow stormed back, and she replaced it. She heard Paul’s footsteps in the hall.

She didn’t want ointment, didn’t want to take her hand from the cool rush of water. When she was little, you were told not to put your burn under cold water, which you longed to do. Instead you were told to smear on ointment, grit your teeth and let it throb. Now the theory had changed. Now you were told no ointment, only cold water: all these theories were set forth with such authority.

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