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Authors: D. R. Macdonald
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should have let him undress her as well. She buried her head in one towel and then another until her hair was merely damp. The old metal smell of pond water rose from the towels she’d tossed into the tub. Her jaw ached from hard shivering but she rubbed and rubbed her body until her limbs, reddened from the towels, calmed. She looked dishevelled in the mirror, under the bare light bulb wild, like a madwoman in those nineteenth-century photos from insane asylums. Face flushed, lips pale, eyes glittering. Her cheek was scratched and she remembered Murdock touching it.
On the back of the toilet sat a green kitbag with makeup she hadn’t touched for a long while. It could hardly matter now, and the man in the next room was what, maybe fifteen years or so older than she was? But she brushed her hair viciously anyway, put on her heavy robe that hung on the door and the fleece-lined slippers she’d kicked off earlier. She turbanned her hair in the last dry towel and when her shivering subsided to an occasional tremor, she opened the door, self-conscious but too eager for the heat of the kitchen to care that a man she hardly knew was looking at her.
“Here,” Red Murdock said, holding up an open wool blanket and wrapping it around her shoulders. He followed it with a patterned quilt and urged her to sit in the rocker he’d pulled up near the stove.
“A lovely old quilt,” Anna said, trembling in the cocoon.
“Granny made it. Kept me warm lots of times, when I was a boy.” He took in the room as if he hadn’t seen it in a long while. “I lived with her for spells. Just me and my dad over there.” He nodded in the direction of his house. “Granny was more like a mother.”
He’d brewed a pot of strong tea and he took a metal flask from his hip and poured a shot into a mug—“Whisky,” he said, glancing at her—before filling it. She gripped the mug’s heat tightly in her hands. There was an enamel dishpan on the floor and the big aluminum kettle on top of the oil stove, and he told her it would be good to soak her feet in Epsom, feet warm the whole body toe to top, he said, but Anna said maybe she’d do that later, she had no Epsom, she didn’t want to move anything right now, not a toe or a finger.
“Ah,” Murdock said, “let’s get the blood going anyway.” With that he knelt, slid her slipper off and took her foot in his large hands. He began to knead its tendon and muscle, his hands were surely warm from the stove but in the numbness of her foot she could only feel the pressure of his fingers, soothing out tightness, bringing heat slowly to bear. She watched him, bent into this act of massaging, solemn, absorbed, a man who’d been shy and curt at the mailbox that afternoon she’d met him. His steel-grey hair, still thick and tight to his head, had a blush of auburn through it, his eyes deep-set in high, wide cheekbones, their colour not obvious at a glance, but they were hazel, flecked with green. And here he was kneading out a stubborn core of ice. She sipped the tea. Her throat felt sore, she’d gagged on pond water, that she remembered, and how the ice opened up sickeningly like a trap door, like an awful trick she’d fallen for, the cold so sudden, like a hard slap.
“There you go,” he said, after he’d massaged her other foot and set it gently down.
“Thank you, Mr. MacLennan,” she said.
“Murdock will do. I heard the dog, you see. I was coming over.”
Steam hissed soft as breath from the kettle spout. Then she heard the dog, more faintly than before, a thin, hopeless yowl and then silence.
“Can you save it? But, oh, it’s so late …” she said. “And you’re cold and wet yourself.”
“Have to be sure you’re up and running. We don’t want a fever. You had two bad choices there, girl, drown or freeze.” She didn’t see it as any kind of choice, but Murdock was smiling just that much, a flicker in his eyes. Did he say it for a reaction, testing? She didn’t
On the back of the toilet sat a green kitbag with makeup she hadn’t touched for a long while. It could hardly matter now, and the man in the next room was what, maybe fifteen years or so older than she was? But she brushed her hair viciously anyway, put on her heavy robe that hung on the door and the fleece-lined slippers she’d kicked off earlier. She turbanned her hair in the last dry towel and when her shivering subsided to an occasional tremor, she opened the door, self-conscious but too eager for the heat of the kitchen to care that a man she hardly knew was looking at her.
“Here,” Red Murdock said, holding up an open wool blanket and wrapping it around her shoulders. He followed it with a patterned quilt and urged her to sit in the rocker he’d pulled up near the stove.
“A lovely old quilt,” Anna said, trembling in the cocoon.
“Granny made it. Kept me warm lots of times, when I was a boy.” He took in the room as if he hadn’t seen it in a long while. “I lived with her for spells. Just me and my dad over there.” He nodded in the direction of his house. “Granny was more like a mother.”
He’d brewed a pot of strong tea and he took a metal flask from his hip and poured a shot into a mug—“Whisky,” he said, glancing at her—before filling it. She gripped the mug’s heat tightly in her hands. There was an enamel dishpan on the floor and the big aluminum kettle on top of the oil stove, and he told her it would be good to soak her feet in Epsom, feet warm the whole body toe to top, he said, but Anna said maybe she’d do that later, she had no Epsom, she didn’t want to move anything right now, not a toe or a finger.
“Ah,” Murdock said, “let’s get the blood going anyway.” With that he knelt, slid her slipper off and took her foot in his large hands. He began to knead its tendon and muscle, his hands were surely warm from the stove but in the numbness of her foot she could only feel the pressure of his fingers, soothing out tightness, bringing heat slowly to bear. She watched him, bent into this act of massaging, solemn, absorbed, a man who’d been shy and curt at the mailbox that afternoon she’d met him. His steel-grey hair, still thick and tight to his head, had a blush of auburn through it, his eyes deep-set in high, wide cheekbones, their colour not obvious at a glance, but they were hazel, flecked with green. And here he was kneading out a stubborn core of ice. She sipped the tea. Her throat felt sore, she’d gagged on pond water, that she remembered, and how the ice opened up sickeningly like a trap door, like an awful trick she’d fallen for, the cold so sudden, like a hard slap.
“There you go,” he said, after he’d massaged her other foot and set it gently down.
“Thank you, Mr. MacLennan,” she said.
“Murdock will do. I heard the dog, you see. I was coming over.”
Steam hissed soft as breath from the kettle spout. Then she heard the dog, more faintly than before, a thin, hopeless yowl and then silence.
“Can you save it? But, oh, it’s so late …” she said. “And you’re cold and wet yourself.”
“Have to be sure you’re up and running. We don’t want a fever. You had two bad choices there, girl, drown or freeze.” She didn’t see it as any kind of choice, but Murdock was smiling just that much, a flicker in his eyes. Did he say it for a reaction, testing? She didn’t
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