Paul Curtin - Gray Snow

She nodded. “Maybe.”

Andrew considered his words like he was on hallowed ground. “Why does Michael blame Sean for Gracie?”

She paused. “I forgot you overheard that.”

“Remember the dinner when they first arrived?”

“That was a fun night.”

“If by fun you mean terribly uncomfortable.”

She lowered her voice. “Truth be told, Michael never liked Sean. He’s thought nothing but bad about him. But he never liked any of the boys I brought home. My dad passed away when we were young, so he always filled that kind of role for me. Protective. He’s kind of like Sean in that sense. There was no hope for you because unless Sean had hand-selected you for Molly, there was nobody who was ever going to be good enough. Initially, Michael didn’t blame Sean for what happened to Gracie, I don’t think. Nobody did. Everyone was just in shock. Sean had been watching her that day—went upstairs for just a minute and when he came downstairs the door was open and—” She wiped a tear away. “It was an accident. Not his fault. But it happened on Sean’s watch, so Michael never forgot that. When he moved the family away—my whole family was in New York, mind you—I think Michael thought Sean was running away from the problem.”

“What problem?”

“Having to look my family in the eye. Then when we moved here it was all, Sean’s paranoid and Sean’s reckless.” She blew a blast of air from her barely parted lips. “Gracie was the cutest thing: blonde hair—curly, unbelievably curly—had big brown eyes. Could make your heart melt just by looking at you. And Michael thought Sean wouldn’t take responsibility for her death.”

“But he did, didn’t he?”

“More than he should. Always has. But that was between Sean and me. And himself. He didn’t feel like he had to answer to anyone else.”

“And he never talks about her?”

She shook her head.

“Do you think he’ll do that with Molly?”

“I hope not,” she said and kept stirring the soup.

“I feel like every time I think about her, I end up with this bitter feeling. Like there’s this residue in my gut, just lingering there. But I don’t want to forget her. I don’t want to act like she never existed.”

“Then keep her alive. Think about her. Speak her name.”

“I think you can make him do it—to make him talk about her.”

She stopped and looked back at him. “I don’t know.”

“I know.” He looked at the ceiling and then back to Elise. “My mom was—she was a doormat. My dad walked all over her. He controlled every part of her life. She had to ask for everything—can I go to the grocery store, can I go visit my friend, can I go to bed now. She—she had to ask if it was okay to use the bathroom. And sometimes he would make her wait. Make her wait until she pissed herself and then he would scold her for being filthy.”

“I’m so sorry you had to experience that.”

“I’m not saying it to get sympathy. What I’m trying to say is, that’s not what’s going on here. I’ve watched it. Both Sean and Michael listen to you—they both care about what you think—because you’re what’s keeping this place together. Making the meals, keeping the peace. There’s enough wood cut outside to keep this room warm for years. The pile is overflowing under the tarps. Nobody else is really doing anything to keep us alive but you. So Sean and Michael—they both listen to you.”

“Not very well.”

“But they do.”

She rubbed her lips, and her face grew dark. “I want you to tell the truth. No filter,” she said, hushing her voice even more.

He opened his mouth to speak but resealed his lips instead.

“Do you think he was going to kill you?”

Andrew rubbed his mouth. “Why?”

“I want to know.”

A stark seriousness in her tone that suddenly made him uneasy. “Mrs. Cain, I’m not really comfortable—”

“I want to know what you really think was going to happen.”

He puckered his lips inward and stood up. “I don’t want to get involved.”

“You are involved. I just want to know—”

“I don’t know.”

“—what you saw. What was going through your mind.”

“I was scared. I remember I was just frozen.”

“Did you think he was going to kill you?”

“I don’t know. I replay it over and over every single time I close my eyes and I just—I don’t know.” A clarity rose to the surface, like he had an answer. But he ignored it. “I don’t know.”

She stared into the soup.

Andrew said, “Did you think he—did you think he was going to kill me?”

She looked up at him, but her eyes darted away and her posture became rigid. She grabbed the ladle and stirred the soup. Andrew could hear him walking in from the kitchen. Sean approached with a tray stacked with ceramic bowls that clattered when he set them on the fireplace hearth. He put his hands on his hips. “Almost done?”

Andrew waited for Elise, who hadn’t so much as turned a degree toward her husband. Andrew said, “We’re almost done, I think.”

Sean didn’t look at him. “That’s good to hear.” He planted a kiss on Elise’s head. “How about I serve it up tonight?”

She had the most genuine smile, one that showed none of the concern she had a moment before. Sean turned his head toward the other room and shouted that it was dinner time. There was a rousing there, and Aidan zipped into the living room. Sat next to his dad. Sean kissed his forehead.

For a moment, Sean’s tenderness toward his son made Andrew doubt all the awful things Michael had said before. About how Sean was a heartless, cruel man one act away from being a sociopath. The moment reminded him that people were not defined by one thing. Even flawed men could have some good in them.

As everyone took a seat, Sean filled the bowls with the hot soup, handing one first to his son and then to Elise. Andrew stepped away from the group, outside the circle of chairs, and watched. Kelly asked for an extra scoop, and Sean obliged. She had put on some weight recently—enough to fill the hollows of her face. Michael squeezed her knee, and she smiled at him. For a while he had thought she was a goner, wasting away. Now she looked to be in an upswing.

Pleases and thank yous were exchanged and, for a brief second, Andrew felt normal. Supplies may have been running low, and the most horrible experiences life could serve had been thrust upon them, but he felt at home, like there might be hope for them after all.

Sean filled up a bowl, stirred the broth around with a spoon, and handed it to Michael. Michael’s eyes rested on Andrew. “What’re you doing back there?” he said. “Grab a seat.”

Andrew did, and Michael handed him the steaming bowl.

“Thanks,” Andrew said.

Sean was busy filling the last bowl when he looked back at Andrew, confused. “Did I give you a bowl?” he asked.

“I gave him mine,” Michael said.

“That one was yours.”

“He eats about as much as me.” He waved toward himself. “I’ll just take his. It isn’t a big deal.”

Sean said nothing for a while. “Yeah, sure,” he said, handing over the bowl.

When everyone had their meal, Elise said a prayer as she always did. Then they ate.

Andrew took a spoonful into his mouth, and the warmth coursed down his throat. It almost warmed his soul. He watched the others eat as well and felt a kinship—a bond with these hardened and weary people who got to eat a nice meal in peace. He thought about Molly, and the memory was pleasant instead of painful. Slurping noises filled the air. After a few minutes of not touching his food, Sean set his bowl down and rubbed his son’s back.