Page 153 of The Frozen River

“Indeed. You would have never convinced me that he’d come back. But he did. And I have to say I’m glad to see it. He’s bought Coleman’s Store, and I think he’ll give her a good life.”

“Hold on for a minute. I’ll go get more warm water.” He’s back two minutes later with a fresh kettle and a hair comb. “Go on.”

I continue, telling him about how Brutus was startled by the fox on our way home. How he threw me. And finally about finding North at the mill. He wants to know every detail about our confrontation. Everything North said and did. He doesn’t like the details, but he listens quietly as he washes my hair with the soap.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” he tells me.

“What?”

“That dog of North’s…”

“Cicero?”

“He’s the one that got into Percy’s mews.”

“I know.”

“He’s half mutt, half coyote, best as I can figure.”

“Okay…”

“The thing about a half-tame dog is that it’s still half-wild. That can’t be changed.”

“And now you’re talking about North?”

“I am making an observation, love.”

Ephraim rinses my hair, then reaches for a small bottle of rosemary and lavender oil. He pours a few drops into his palm, then rubs his hands together. He works it through my hair slowly to ease out the tangles, and then he begins to comb, listening to me all the while. The story ends with details he already knows. A knife and blood.

“Is he…?” My voice trails off.

“Alive? Yes,” Ephraim says. “You saved him.”

“Did Page ask what happened?”

“He did. And I gave him the answer you suggested. North didn’t contradict a word of it.”

I rest my head on my knees as Ephraim works his way upward with the comb. We are silent for a long while once he abandons the comb and begins to massage my neck and scalp.

“There was quite a mess at the mill,” he says, thumbs rubbing circles right behind my ears.

I mumble something that almost sounds like I’m sorry. Even though I’m not.

“Three buckets of water and some scrubbing took care of the blood,” he tells me. “But it took a bit of thinking to figure out what to do with the… rest,” he says.

The thought makes me queasy. “Oh.”

“I wrapped it up. Stuffed it in a box. And took it to Rebecca Foster.”

I sit up straight. Gape at him. “Why?”

“It isn’t much as far as justice goes,” he says. “But it’s better than nothing. And that’s exactly what I told her.”

“What did she do?”

“Threw the whole thing in the fire, box and all, then sat in her chair and cried.”

The tears are good, I think. That’s a start, at least.