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Outside, the porch stairs are slick and gritty with salt. Which is better than icy and snowy. Mr. Carmallo usually keeps the stairs and walk meticulously ice-free. Him or his wife. They live in a guest house behind the main house and keep the place up when the Madisons are elsewhere.
I walk slowly down the stairs and down the curving stone walk toward the driveway. Snow’s still falling, landing coolly on my cheeks and scalp. The driveway hasn’t been plowed in a few hours, so as I hit the “unlock” key on Mr. M’s keyring, my boots squeak on the fine powder.
The inky black Lexus LS looks meticulous inside, save for a folded copy of yesterday’s Wall Street Journal and the lingering scent of stale coffee. I grab the window scraper from the glove box, cleaning off the windshield as the defrost aids me from the inside, then folding down the windshield wipers. People in these parts leave them raised up off the windshield like this, I guess to keep them from freezing to the glass.
By the time I get back in, my seat is warm. The vents are blowing warm, coffee-scented air.
I fold my stolen scarf over my mouth and nose. As I back out, I inhale deeply.
So—I’m miserable.
That’s the truth of things. That’s my New Year’s secret.
As I drive toward the little general store a half a mile away, I allow myself a moment to imagine the man’s big, strong hands on my body. The way his fingers might feel stroking the soft skin of my throat. The way his beard would tickle the inside of my thighs.
I wonder if he’d love me well.
I tell myself he would. The snow pours down, a thick white curtain out in front of me, and I think it’s a shame I never realized sooner: Elvie doesn’t love me. I’m not sure he can.
That’s what’s been missing. Not just love—the possibility of finding it. I won’t, not with Elvie. But he’s comfortable. Elvie is easy. Warm and cozy.
What I need is fresh—and cold. A new start. Scary.
I say a silent prayer that I’m brave enough to change.
* * *
Barrett
December 27, 2015
I strap the brace on my left hand and look down at my fingers. The three that don’t move on their own are tightly curled against my palm: just tight enough so they can wrap snugly around the grip panel of my .22.
Christmas from Gwenna. So goddamned thoughtful.
I unload a few shots into the bull’s eye out in front of me, then use the lever on the fence to move the target back another thirty yards.
A cold breeze smacks it from the side, causing the bull’s eye paper to flutter. All the better. I set my sights on the small, red dot and pull the trigger with my right index finger.
When the bullet slices cleanly through the middle, I grin and blow on my fingers.
Not bad for a leftie.
I spend another half an hour at the range. It’s just three miles from our houses, but I still wouldn’t be here were it not for my secret Christmas present to myself. I feel fucking bad about it if I think about it too long, so I try not to. I just watch her on my phone and see her singing in her car and get a deep, relieved breath.
She’s leaving Home Depot with some bungee cords for the trip. We’re leaving tomorrow. I follow along with her as she heads toward
her hair place. Fuck, her voice is gorgeous. She’s singing some old-school country music. Reba, I believe. Dove went through a country phase in Myanmar one time, so I know the classics.
When she exits the Mini Cooper, I’ll track her phone. Be sure she gets into the hair place. If she loses the phone, it doesn’t matter. All her shoe soles have been punctured, and the right shoe of every pair harbors a tiny GPS tracker.
I turn up the volume, trying and failing to muster up some guilt for listening to her sing while I finish up. Her voice is…like a living thing. It gets inside my chest. So far, I’ve withheld her last Christmas gift: a booking to sing at an upscale whiskey bar in Breckenridge on New Year’s Eve. I was hoping it might take her mind off things.
Since Christmas night, I’ve asked her to sing to me as we go to sleep. So I can tell for sure: her voice is not affected by what happened to her mouth. She can hit all the notes, make all the sounds. I’m not sure why she doesn’t perform anymore.
Something hot and tight takes hold of the back of my throat. I load the gun up and walk slowly back to my Jeep. She told me the other night that not remembering what happened to her is a problem. That she feels like she can’t move on in the way she wants to.
I haven’t been able to think about it since then, but now I do, as I drive back toward our houses.
