Sarah St.Vincent - Ways to Hide in Winter

“Well,” I said after a moment, “I can’t.”

He licked his lips, seeming to prepare himself.

“You’re gonna have to,” he repeated. “Or else I tell my niece. About you.”

For a moment, the world stopped. I imagined Beth as she might have looked at that very moment, pursing her bright-pink lips as she listened to a customer attempt to banter with her. The way she’d leaned toward me on the couch the day we’d fought. How she’d held my hand when I’d been recovering on my hospital bed for all those months, barely speaking to anyone. The hope in her eyes when she’d tried to talk me into going back to college.

I looked at him, and then I began to laugh. A long, rolling laugh that filled the store.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Tell her. In fact, invite me when you do.”

His face tightened.

I kept laughing, trying to stop but unable. For a second, I worried I would lose control and slide into hysterics, but eventually I slowed down.

He waited until I was done. Then, leaning forward, he put his hands against the counter, bringing his face inches from mine. From inside his clothing, there was the clank of something metallic. I could smell motor oil, sweat, wood smoke.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. I stayed where I was, seeing the redness of his eyes, a scratch that ran down the edge of his mouth.

He was thinking about something, something other than the scene that was playing out between us. I could see it.

He wanted me to see it. To know that he knew.

There was no laughing now. He had the look of someone who, no matter what else he might be, fully understood his own size and strength. Who had the advantage.

“Don’t be a fool, girl,” he said quietly. “I know every inch of this place. You think I don’t know where he is?”

A cold sensation ran down my arms and legs. I stared him in the face, but inside I quavered.

He looked me up and down. Then he pushed himself back from the counter, shrugging.

“Have it your way,” he said in a low, flat tone, and turned away.

I watched him take a step toward the door.

“Wait,” I said.

For a moment, I didn’t move.

Then I opened the register, taking out the tens and twenties. My fingers seemed to thicken as I counted them, putting them in slim piles.

There wasn’t enough.

With quick steps, I moved past him. Through the door, outside, into the storage room, to the safe in the wall. I spun the combination lock and reemerged.

“Here,” I said, holding out the bills.

We stood facing each other on the porch, squaring off.

He counted the cash, keeping half an eye on me as he did so.

“Okay,” he said finally.

I looked at him, the money in his fist. The bills seemed abnormally green, as if they’d been transformed, as if they were shouting to the world that something had happened here, something for which someone should feel guilty. I felt my skin prickle.

He folded them and put them in his pocket.

“Next time,” he said, “don’t say ‘no’ to me. It don’t suit you.”

His boots made heavy sounds as he walked across the porch. He looked back at me for a moment, then vanished around the corner of the building.

I only realized then that there was still nothing on the counter. No bag.

I locked the store and climbed the steep embankment behind it, sitting down on the shoulder of the state road and looking out over the park. The trees hadn’t begun to bud yet, but the snow was disappearing, and I knew the great thaw wasn’t far off. I reached out to pluck a crocus, then wrapped my arms around my knees, picturing my grandmother in her hospital bed, the empty house, my room, the paper bag under the mattress, the trodden earth as I’d followed John on his horse, the great stretch of the valley, the mountains that bounded the world.

There was only one thing to be done, I thought. About the stranger, about everything.

And I would do it, I knew then.

I would do it.

Still carrying the crocus like some kind of talisman, I slipped into the hostel, glancing around to make sure I wasn’t being observed, although by now I knew I probably was. I made my way down to the basement, then the crawlspace, feeling my way in the darkness until I reached the bottom of the ladder.

“Hey,” I said, my voice sounding strange in my own ears.

“Oh,” a voice replied. “I wasn’t expecting you.” There was a click, and the stranger appeared, holding the flashlight Martin had given him.

“We’ll leave first thing tomorrow,” I said. “I just have to do something first. It’s important, but I’ll…I’ll take care of it as quickly as I can.”

There was a layer of dust on his skin, but his eyes shone out at me.

“You look so terribly sad,” he said.

I gestured the words away. “Let’s not talk about it. I had some decisions to make, and I’ve made them.” I reached out to touch a loose brick in the wall. “I’ll probably still open the store in the morning so no one gets suspicious, like we talked about.” There was a twisting in my gut, but I didn’t tell him who “no one” was. “I’m not sure how we’re going to get you out of the building without anyone noticing, but I’ll talk to Martin and we’ll figure out something.”

He hesitated, then nodded. His look was vague and thoughtful, as if his mind were far away. Glancing around at the cracked walls, he looked back at me as if he might say something, but he didn’t. If he hadn’t nodded, I would almost have wondered if he’d heard me. “What’s that?” he asked finally, glancing down at my hand.

“What? Oh. It’s a crocus. First sign of spring. Here, take it.”

I gave it to him, his dusty fingers brushing my palm. He raised it to his face.

“Don’t be afraid,” I said, as much to myself as to him.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he held the flower in front of him, turning it in his fingers, taking in the deep violet color that was even more striking in the dim light.

“I brought your bird down here,” he said, sounding almost shy.

“Bird? What bird?”

He knelt and reached behind him, then held out a glass figurine. It was coated with dirt, but still whole.

“Oh,” I said, taking it in my hands. The glass was cold.

“It makes me think of better places. If you understand what I mean.” He smiled, looking down at his shoes. Then he looked back up. “You know,” he said, “truly, you are very good. I’ve met few people who would be so generous.”

My throat constricted, and I looked away. “I’m not as good as you think I am. Believe me. I wish I were.”

“You’ve made all the difference to me.”

I grimaced. “No,” I said with difficulty. “I’ve made things worse for you. You don’t realize it, but I have.”

He shook his head. Then, reaching forward tentatively, he brushed the hair away from my face, taking care not to graze my skin, as if he were afraid I would run away. Surprised, I looked up at him.

He put his hand on my face then, his palm curving gently around my chin and his thumb resting on my cheekbone. His fingers were cool against my skin. As I stood still, he moved toward me, putting his mouth against mine. I felt the pulsing at his throat, the soft edge of his collar, realized I knew his smell.

He let me go, and I stepped back, stunned.

I found myself unable to look at him, caught by the sensations warring within me. Instead, I stood there, holding myself still, staring at the circle of light on the ground.

“I was thinking maybe northern New York,” I said finally, my voice sounding disconnected even to my own ears. “Along the river. From there, you can decide what’s best. I mean, heading down toward the city or up to the border or something. If that’s what you want.”