you? It’s very bad there.
Very, very bad. And you have this place here. Why would you ever leave?”
Just then, the heating kicked in. Her
brow furrowed and she smiled. “How on earth did you ever…?”
Ben chuckled. “It wasn’t me—I’m not
responsible for any of this, in fact. It’s kind of a long story.”
“Oh, they’re all long stories.
Every last damned one of them. Is there any…is there any more of that soup?”
“Yep. I was actually hoping you’d be up
soon. Would you join me for lunch?”
She nodded and he helped her into the
kitchen. He ladled stew into bowls and brewed tea. They had dried apples and
pecans, and the woman ate heartily.
“So,” Ben began. He replenished their tea.
“I have to ask—how did you find this place?”
Alice’s features tightened. She shook
her head once—a slight gesture, and stood, the blanket still wrapped about her
shoulders. “I need to rest now. Thank you for lunch, Ben.”
And with that she left him there. He
heard her moving down the hall, then the door in the master bedroom latched
softly.
“Well,” he said. He finished his tea and
listened to the house settling. When he was finished he cleaned the dishes and returned
to the living room to make a ball of soap.
TEN
Existentialism.
Living just to be. It was how they had come
to coexist in the Winstons’ home, and it suited them well enough. Ben mostly
tended the grounds; Alice pitched in where she could as her strength slowly
returned.
It was endless winter—days on end of drifting
snow and freezing temperatures. They’d shut the electricity off and grown
accustomed to navigating their lives from behind tiny bursts of steam.
Ben moved his things into the kids’
bedroom. The bed wasn’t as soft and the room faced the north, where it took the
brunt of the coldest winds, but he stockpiled blankets and it suited him.
Every morning, he waddled over the ice-crusted
snowdrifts on a pair of old snowshoes. It took time and energy to clear enough
ice to run the paddles that replenished the batteries. He’d run the power for
about four days after rescuing Alice. Then the juice just shut off, the
batteries exhausted, and he had no way of knowing when their charge would be
restored.
They had been four damned good days.
It was hard work, and he often exhausted
himself in the process of shattering and removing the yards of ice that formed
around the paddles. On a cold February morning, he stopped to rest and to consider
the world around him.
Barren—their part of the world was utterly
barren.
Aside from a couple dying juniper and
cypress trees at the boundary of the woods, there was no foliage. Snow covered everything,
some of the drifts piled as high as the second story of the Winstons’ house. It
looked to him, in that moment, as hospitable an environment as the surface of
the moon, that master of the tides whose rare appearances now evoked minor
celebrations, the atmosphere was so congested.
And yet Ben was optimistic. Someone had come—someone with which to share the burden of isolation—and his thoughts
rarely strayed from the quiet woman he now shared a home with. He still planned
to search for Coraline in Atlanta. It would be one final journey, one last
effort to locate the girl who had owned his heart so many years before.
But the notion of actually finding her
grew just a little dimmer every day. It was better to concentrate on reality, on
things that truly were . When Coral flashed into his thoughts, when he paused
to glance at the shabby photograph he kept in his pocket, he chastised himself.
“She’s gone ,” he hissed. “Probably
dead, Ben. Face it. That girl’s been gone for a long time and you know it. Be
thankful for things that are …”
And Alice certainly was . In the
days after he had rescued her, her fingers had blistered, cracked, and bled as
they healed, but she lost no flesh. In a week’s time her cheeks had begun to
fill out.
Ben recognized the change.
Very, very bad. And you have this place here. Why would you ever leave?”
Just then, the heating kicked in. Her
brow furrowed and she smiled. “How on earth did you ever…?”
Ben chuckled. “It wasn’t me—I’m not
responsible for any of this, in fact. It’s kind of a long story.”
“Oh, they’re all long stories.
Every last damned one of them. Is there any…is there any more of that soup?”
“Yep. I was actually hoping you’d be up
soon. Would you join me for lunch?”
She nodded and he helped her into the
kitchen. He ladled stew into bowls and brewed tea. They had dried apples and
pecans, and the woman ate heartily.
“So,” Ben began. He replenished their tea.
“I have to ask—how did you find this place?”
Alice’s features tightened. She shook
her head once—a slight gesture, and stood, the blanket still wrapped about her
shoulders. “I need to rest now. Thank you for lunch, Ben.”
And with that she left him there. He
heard her moving down the hall, then the door in the master bedroom latched
softly.
“Well,” he said. He finished his tea and
listened to the house settling. When he was finished he cleaned the dishes and returned
to the living room to make a ball of soap.
TEN
Existentialism.
Living just to be. It was how they had come
to coexist in the Winstons’ home, and it suited them well enough. Ben mostly
tended the grounds; Alice pitched in where she could as her strength slowly
returned.
It was endless winter—days on end of drifting
snow and freezing temperatures. They’d shut the electricity off and grown
accustomed to navigating their lives from behind tiny bursts of steam.
Ben moved his things into the kids’
bedroom. The bed wasn’t as soft and the room faced the north, where it took the
brunt of the coldest winds, but he stockpiled blankets and it suited him.
Every morning, he waddled over the ice-crusted
snowdrifts on a pair of old snowshoes. It took time and energy to clear enough
ice to run the paddles that replenished the batteries. He’d run the power for
about four days after rescuing Alice. Then the juice just shut off, the
batteries exhausted, and he had no way of knowing when their charge would be
restored.
They had been four damned good days.
It was hard work, and he often exhausted
himself in the process of shattering and removing the yards of ice that formed
around the paddles. On a cold February morning, he stopped to rest and to consider
the world around him.
Barren—their part of the world was utterly
barren.
Aside from a couple dying juniper and
cypress trees at the boundary of the woods, there was no foliage. Snow covered everything,
some of the drifts piled as high as the second story of the Winstons’ house. It
looked to him, in that moment, as hospitable an environment as the surface of
the moon, that master of the tides whose rare appearances now evoked minor
celebrations, the atmosphere was so congested.
And yet Ben was optimistic. Someone had come—someone with which to share the burden of isolation—and his thoughts
rarely strayed from the quiet woman he now shared a home with. He still planned
to search for Coraline in Atlanta. It would be one final journey, one last
effort to locate the girl who had owned his heart so many years before.
But the notion of actually finding her
grew just a little dimmer every day. It was better to concentrate on reality, on
things that truly were . When Coral flashed into his thoughts, when he paused
to glance at the shabby photograph he kept in his pocket, he chastised himself.
“She’s gone ,” he hissed. “Probably
dead, Ben. Face it. That girl’s been gone for a long time and you know it. Be
thankful for things that are …”
And Alice certainly was . In the
days after he had rescued her, her fingers had blistered, cracked, and bled as
they healed, but she lost no flesh. In a week’s time her cheeks had begun to
fill out.
Ben recognized the change.
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