P. Parrish - Dead of Winter

“When I was living in Mississippi I started listening to her stuff a lot more,” Louis said. “But I couldn’t listen to that song.”

Zoe leaned in and kissed him, her hand cupping his cheek. She pulled back, her dark eyes locked on his.

He wanted suddenly to tell her. To tell her the truth about himself, about what he was. He wanted to tell her everything, about what happened down in Mississippi, about the bones of the black man he had found in that grave under the tree, about how he had felt when he finally found the man’s murderer. He wanted to tell her about the terror he had felt in that cell when Larry Cutter put that rope around his neck.

She kissed him again, more deeply. He returned her kiss then gently pushed away from her. He rose slowly and went toward the fireplace. He stared at the painting, unable to turn around and face her.

After a moment, she came up and put her arms around his waist, leaning into him.

“What would you like to do now?” she said softly.

What he wanted to do was make love. But he couldn’t look at her. Not just yet.

“Can I see your paintings?” he asked.

“All right,” she said. “They’re in the other room.”

He followed her into an adjoining room. She switched on a small lamp. In contrast to the living room this room was barren. There was no furniture except for a table and one old chair. The table was covered with tubes of paints and cans holding brushes. In one corner stood a large easel, which held a bare white canvas about four by three feet. The north wall of the room was given over entirely to two huge bare windows. Outside, in the moonlight, Louis could see that all the trees within ten yards of the cabin had been cut down. Zoe saw him staring at the stumps.

“I had to take them out. I needed the light,” she said. “You won’t arrest me or something, will you.”

He turned sharply then realized she was joking about his “job” with the forestry department. He shook his head.

He went to the table, touching the tubes of paint. Zoe hovered behind him. His eyes went finally to the canvases stacked in the corner against the wall and he picked one up. It was a landscape of the lake in winter, a stark study in grays, whites and blacks. He put it back and looked through the others. They were all variations on the same theme — somber-toned studies of nature caught in its coldest moments.

He turned to look at her. “They’re good but…bleak. Why no people?”

“I don’t know.”

She was looking up at him. She seemed suddenly self-conscious, vulnerable, in a way she never did, even when they made love. “I’ve never let anyone in here before,” she said.

He couldn’t think of anything to say.

“I’d like to draw you,” she said.

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking about it all night.” She hurried to the table.

Louis stared at her back. “Right now?” he asked.

She turned, smiling. “Why not? Take off your shirt.”

“Zoe — ”

She had pulled her hair back in a ponytail and was rummaging through a box of charcoal. She turned and saw that he hadn’t moved. “Come on, it’ll be fun,” she said with a smile. “I’ll turn on the space heater for you.”

She went to the easel and set up a small canvas. He hesitated then pulled his sweatshirt off over his head.

“Just sit down in the chair,” Zoe said. “However you’re comfortable.”

Reluctantly, he sat down in the chair. Zoe studied him for a moment then repositioned one of his arms on the back of the chair. She took her place behind the easel.

“Don’t move,” She said.

“For how long?” he asked.

“Until I get you sketched in.”

The room grew quiet. Louis sat motionless, watching her as she made swift arcing movements over the canvas. She frowned slightly in concentration as her eyes moved back and forth from the canvas to him. He could feel her eyes moving over his body but it was different than how she looked at him when they made love. He felt a surge move through his body and knew he was starting to get erect again.

She noticed it and laughed. She kept sketching.

His eyes drifted toward the windows. It had started to snow and the windows were starting to fog up from the space heater.

“You have a good face,” she said, sketching.

“Good?” he said.

She nodded. “I had forgotten how it all comes out when you draw people. Their characters, it comes out.” She wiped a strand of hair back from her face, leaving a smudge of charcoal on her cheek. “I can see things in your face,” she said. “Things that I try to put in my painting.”

“What things?” Louis asked.

“Goodness,” she said. “Grace, kindness, honor.”

He shook his head slowly, letting his arm drop from the back of the chair. She was concentrating and didn’t notice.

“Zoe…”

She looked up.

“Zoe, there’s something I have to tell you,” he said.

“What?”

He rested his arms on his knees, bowing his head.

“Louis? What is it?”

He looked up at her. “The first night, when you were talking about your father. Remember that?”

She nodded, the charcoal poised above the canvas.

Louis ran a hand over his head.

“For God’s sake,” she said with a small laugh. “What is it?”

“I lied to you. When I told you what I did for a living. I lied to you.” He let out a deep breath. “I’m a cop, Zoe.”

For a moment, she didn’t move. Then she blinked, turned her back to him and went to the table.

“Here?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Suddenly, she picked up a can of brushes and hurled it at the wall. It caught the edge of the easel and knocked it over, splashing colored water across the walls. The canvas fell to the floor. Louis reached to pick it up.

“Leave it!” she said. She was holding a hand over her eyes. It was shaking.

“Zoe,” he said, taking a step toward her.

She turned abruptly. “Get out of here,” she said.

“Zoe, let’s talk — ”

“Get out!” she yelled. She snatched his sweatshirt from the floor and threw it at him. “Get out!” She went stiffly to the windows, holding herself as she stared out at the snow.

Louis watched her for a moment then slowly went back out into the living room. He dressed quickly, stopping at the door to pull on his running shoes. He paused, his hand on the doorknob, listening. He could hear nothing from the other room. Finally, he opened the door and stepped out into the cold.

It was snowing hard. He could barely make out the lake down below and the lights of the town far beyond. He took a few steps off the cabin’s porch and down the hill then stopped. He turned to look back at the cabin. His chest, the entire inside of his body, felt hollow, as though everything had been scooped out. It burned, almost like when he had been shot.

He had fucked it up.

“Goddamn it,” he whispered. Then louder. “Goddamn it!”

He swung and slammed his hand into a tree.

Louis pushed open the door of the emergency room and paused, holding up his right hand to examine the gauze wrapping. What an ass he was, ramming his fist into a tree. The pain had kept him up most of the night — that and the memory of Zoe’s face. Finally, at five-thirty he had gotten up, dressed and walked to the hospital. Just a sprain, the doctor had told him, don’t use it for a couple of days.

He glanced at his watch. Seven-fifteen. Now what? He pulled up the collar of his jacket and started toward the station. There was nowhere else to go.

How could he have been so stupid? He should have told her the truth that first night. He should have been different with her than he had been with other women. Different because she was different, this was different. Even though they had known each other only a few weeks he felt this relationship was special, that it had the hope of going somewhere. But not now. He had blown it big time.