These Silent Woods by Kimi Cunningham Grant

Author:Kimi Cunningham Grant [Kimi Cunningham Grant]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

NINETEEN

After dinner, upon Finch’s insistence, Marie reads a page of The Book of North American Birds, and I wash the dishes and listen.

“‘Eastern Phoebe. Hailed by many as a harbinger of spring, the eastern phoebe migrates early. It’s characterized by its buoyant fluttering flight with shallow wingbeats.’” She’s a good reader, Marie, with a smooth, lulling voice. Which I guess shouldn’t surprise me, her being a librarian and the daughter of a literature professor. Still, with the woodstove pushing heat and the strain of the day and my hands in the hot, soapy water, there’s something in me that wants to go lie on the couch, just listening until I fall asleep.

Finch takes a good while to settle down, all wound up because of our guest and the day’s excitement, but at last, she curls up in her bed and sleep overtakes her.

Marie heats some water in the kettle and asks if I’d like some tea. I say sure because why not. The new candle on the counter flickers and flares, a small glow in the dark room.

“I forgot how beautiful it is here. How peaceful.” She leans against the counter and peers out the window. “Look, full moon.”

I move to stand beside her, and high in the sky the moon hangs round and white, pockmarked, stricken with gray. The ground glistens with a dusting of snow. Still a few weeks until the bigger storms usually come, but not entirely out of the realm of possibility that one could push through. “You ought to plan on an early start, just in case this snow amounts to something.”

Our arms touch and it’s nothing, arms touching, but it has been eight years since I’ve touched a woman and there’s something in that small contact, the converging of skin, the feel of another person, that nicks at a thing deep inside of me, that wounds and burns. And also thrills. Yes, I admit it. I’m a man, after all, with urges and needs: can’t be helped. I pull away and turn and move the kettle from the stove before it begins to sing. “How long has it been since you were here?”

“Oh, years. I haven’t been here since that time I tagged along with you and Jake. So, I don’t know. How long ago was that? A decade?”

I nod. I can’t help but think: Consider how much has happened. How a life can veer and stretch and retract and shatter. How it feels in this moment, as though things could crumble yet again with just the slightest alteration. Tenuous, this life. Nothing sure at all.

“My dad’s dream of living off the land,” Marie says. “This place. His father passed away and he built it with every cent of his inheritance. To my mother’s great disappointment, I should add. I was five when she finally said she’d had enough, so I don’t remember much. Bits and pieces. Picking raspberries, digging potatoes. Jake was older so he remembered a lot more.” She turns from the window.

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