Women Drinking Benedictine (19 page)

“Say it,” Wade insisted.

“Lunatic,” Henry shouted.

“One last chance,” Wade threatened. “Just one last chance.”

“Get off me,” Henry kicked at his son and his pants tore open. He spread his legs and showed them all the long split running up the length of his inseam. The exposed flesh of his inner thigh was bright pink, burned from the wind and cold.

“Now look what you've done,” Henry yelled and slapped his son. This time Wade didn't strike back. He laughed instead, which made Henry even madder.

Janeene felt like she had front-row seats to a show she shouldn't be watching. Their fighting, which had seemed so childish when they first came here, was now real. She was thrilled by the strength and anger of their fight.

“How am I going to get home with my pants like this?” Henry tugged at the ripped material, showing the loose skin of his thigh. “Take a good look at what you've done.”

“I'm not the one who ripped your pants,” Wade shot back.

“You're the one who didn't want to waste the night in Marquette,” Henry argued back. “I can't go outside like this. I'll freeze my ass off.”

Wade asked Phil if they could borrow a pair of pants. “Nothing special,” he said. “Just something for this drunk to wear home.”

Phil said he'd go look for something and then motioned for Janeene to come with him. She knew he didn't want her alone with these men, but she didn't want to leave. She liked their arguing, however stupid it was. It was such a relief to be around people—to have something to listen to besides silence. Phil waited, and she knew she had no choice but to go with him.

“This is ridiculous,” Phil complained once they were out of earshot. “They're drunk and I don't want them in the house. We should call the police.”

Janeene checked the ragbag for something Henry could wear, but all she found were some old beach towels. The multicolored material was so out of place that it took her a moment to remember what the towels were used for.

“He can't go outside with that rip in his pants,” Janeene said.

“He outweighs me by fifty pounds,” Phil argued. “What's going to fit him?”

“It's the jacket. He just looks big,” Janeene said. “You must have something he could wear.”

Phil told her to wait there, but as soon as he went upstairs she went back into the living room, where Wade was still sitting on his father. They were engaged in some sort of silent stare-down, neither of them moving or speaking.

Phil came down with a pair of his grandfather's pants—light-colored wool trousers. He handed them to Henry, who thanked him with a nod of his head. Wade continued staring at his father.

Henry unzipped his pants and Janeene told them she'd wait in the other room while he changed.

She poured herself a glass of brandy and sipped it slowly. It was not something she drank very often, but the medicinal taste was somehow comforting and she finished the glass in three swallows.

“What's wrong?” she asked. Phil had the trousers under his arm, his face tight with disapproval and impatience.

“They're too tight to get over his ankles.”

“Do you have another pair?”

“Not that I'm going to give him,” Phil said. “These will fit if I open the cuff a bit. They're baggy enough for him.”

He flipped the scissors off the pegboard and sat at the kitchen table.

“They're just like the people from the boat,” Janeene whispered suddenly. “Coming out of nowhere in the middle of the night like this.” It was not quite ten o'clock, but daylight seemed something foreign, something they might never see again.

“I can't believe you're still listening to that nonsense,” Phil said.

“What do you mean?”

“All the stuff about the boat,” he said. “I'm so sick of that nonsense.”

“It's not nonsense. Yannick Murphy saw them.” Janeene was surprised by Phil's tone. She knew he was uncomfortable with these men in the house, but there was no reason to take his anger out on her.

“Yannick Murphy says he saw fifty people getting off a boat and you believe him?”

Phil made a small cut in the material and began to pull. The pants were thick and difficult to tear.

“People don't make up things like that.” Janeene leaned across the table to help, but Phil shoved the pant legs off the table, where she couldn't reach them.

“You ever stop to ask yourself what Yannick Murphy was doing in the lower harbor at two o'clock in the morning?”

Now she was irritated. She had already told Phil the story of Yannick walking home from Doc's Saloon. Drunk, tired, and cold, he was more surprised than anyone to see the boat skimming the dark water as it slowed to dock in the quiet night. The breakwater was icy and he set out to warn them to move the boat to the marina. That's when he saw all the people getting off the boat. That's when he heard them talking and knew that something was up—something strange was about to happen.

“He spent the night in a bar and you're going to believe what he says?” Phil said. “People see all kinds of things when they're drunk. Flying saucers. Seven-footed animals. Mystery ships.”

“Maybe you're the one who's afraid,” Janeene said. “That's why you don't want to believe it could happen. Because you're afraid of them.”

“I'm not afraid of something that doesn't exist.” Phil pulled at the material with both hands, and this time it gave way. It caught the side seam and ripped all the way up to the crotch. They were no better than the pair Henry was wearing.

“I don't have anything that's going to fit this guy.” Phil threw the trousers to the floor.

“What about something else of your grandfather's?” Janeene would not fight with Phil. Not with these men in the house. “All that stuff we found when we moved in?”

Phil nodded but did not get up from the table.

“Do you want me to look?” Janeene asked.

“No,” Phil said. “It's not insulated up there. I'll go.”

“A little cold's not going to kill me,” she said.

“What?” Phil turned to her.

“Nothing,” she shook her head. “Nothing.”

When he left, she picked up the trousers and turned them over her arm until she had rolled them into a ball. She was angry that Phil was so upset. It wasn't as if the men had interrupted them. It wasn't as if they were doing anything important when the men came knocking at the door.

She knew they would talk about the men after the tow truck came and jump-started their car. Phil would be relieved that they were gone. He would sit on the edge of the bed and talk to her even after she told him she was tired. He would keep talking even when she closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. All talked out, he would crawl under the covers and want to make love. Janeene, not finding a reason to say no, would go through the motions.

The thought of the empty house and the days ahead with nothing to do, no one to talk to except Phil, got her so frustrated that she shoved the wool pants into the dirty dishwater just as Wade walked in the room. He did not ask her what she was doing.

The dinner plates had been soaking since six o'clock. Janeene buried her hands up to her elbows and turned the heavy wool in the dead soapsuds while leftover bits of pork chop and mashed potato floated to the top of the still, gray water. She tried to act like nothing was wrong, but she felt foolish taking her frustrations out on a pair of pants.

“You and your husband don't look like you're from around here,” Wade said quietly. She fished the pants out of the water and hung them over the side of the sink. The excess water dripped onto the floor.

“We just moved here in September from Detroit,” she said.

“You must be going nuts.”

“I've never been around this much snow,” Janeene said. “It gets cold in Detroit, but nothing like this. Some nights I can almost hear the temperature falling. It just keeps getting colder. I think the wind's going to pull the house down with it.” She was out of breath from speaking so quickly.

“I didn't mean the weather,” Wade said, and Janeene asked if he was talking about the people.

Instead of answering, he picked up the bottle of aspirin, but his fingers were too thick to open it. He stuck it in his mouth and tried with his teeth.

“Do you have a headache?” she asked.

“I'm not sure.” Wade handed her the bottle. The cap was wet from his spit. She turned it until the two arrows pointed at each other, then popped it open with her fingernail.

“Feel my forehead,” he said, “and you can tell me if I'm sick.”

His skin was soft and warm, but she could not tell if it was feverish. She started to pull her hand away, but Wade held her wrist with a firm grip. He was not hurting her, but his touch made her nervous. Her fingertips brushed the corners of his eyes and he closed them. His lashes were darker than they should have been with his hair so blond.

“What are you doing there?” Henry yelled and Janeene dropped her hand and shoved it back into the dishwater.

“I'm not doing anything,” Wade said and turned to face his father.

“She wouldn't touch someone like you unless you bribed her,” Henry yelled at Wade.

“He's got a headache,” Janeene interrupted. “He doesn't feel good.”

“You don't know what you're talking about, old man,” Wade said. “Stay out of what you don't know.”

Their heavy bodies were not used to the heat in the house, and the smell of their perspiration was everywhere. The strong, stale odor was strange in the winter world, which kept everything so sterile, and Janeene found it unnerving.

“He didn't make me do anything,” Janeene said. The pants had dripped onto the floor and she tripped on the wet tile when she started to leave the room.

Wade held her hip and asked if she was all right. She could feel the skin bruising beneath his touch.

Henry smiled at them. “Well. This is cozy,” he said. “And you with your husband just up the stairs.”

Janeene was still holding Wade's aspirin. She put them on her tongue and then turned to the sink and cupped water into her hand. The aspirin dissolved in her throat, the chalky substance creeping back up into her mouth. She turned and spat them into the dishwater.

“Excuse me,” she apologized and went upstairs to see why Phil was taking so long. He was not in their bedroom. The spare bedrooms were cold and dark, and she opened the attic door and called up the steps.

“Phil?” There was no sound. She called his name again, but her voice echoed back to her. She slammed the door and hurried downstairs, wanting to get away from all the emptiness.

Henry was sitting on the couch watching television. He was wearing a pair of dark green pants she didn't recognize but knew they must have been among Phil's grandfather's things. She turned down the sound on the TV and asked Henry where Phil was.

“Like that's something that you're concerned about?” Henry smiled.

“Of course I'm concerned,” she said. She wanted Phil there with her.

“Don't give her a hard time,” Wade said. “Tell her where her husband is.”

Henry kept staring at the television, but pointed to the front door.

“He left?” Janeene asked. “Why? Where would he go?”

“He's getting his car started to give us a jump.”

“What about the gas station?” Janeene said. “Couldn't they tow you?”

“The truck's out in Big Bay,” Henry said. “They're not sure when it'll be back.”

“It's a bad night to be out,” Janeene said, and Henry laughed.

“They're all bad nights to be out.” Henry zipped up his coat and pulled on his cap until it covered his ears.

“No sense in all of us getting cold,” he said. “You two might as well stay here where it's warm.”

Wade stood in the middle of the room looking out the window. She knew he was standing too far from the glass to see anything but his own reflection. Yet he was concentrating as if he could see into the night.

He was silent for some time and then slowly, as if coming out of a trance, turned and asked if she was afraid of living in Marquette.

“What would I be afraid of?” she asked.

“Things. All kinds of things go on in these parts,” Wade told her. “There's lots to be afraid of.”

“Like what?”

“Like ghosts,” he said. “Aren't you afraid of ghosts?”

“What do you mean?” she asked. “Like something haunting my attic?”

“I'm talking about people coming back from the dead,” he said.

“People don't come back from the dead,” she told him.

“They don't?” Wade looked at her, his eyebrows raised. “You know that for a fact?”

“Why would they come back?” she asked.

“To settle the score,” he told her. “They might want to get even.”

He was trying to tell her something. He had been trying to tell her something all night. The taste of copper filled her mouth, and she swallowed hard to get rid of it. “Did you kill that man in the park?”

“Is that what you think?”

The wind was cold by the open door, but she didn't move. The icy blasts ran up her spine. Her skin spotted with goose-bumps.

“We're hunters up here,” he said. “Gutting a deer is something we all know how to do. Those are the kinds of things we learn when we're twelve.”

“This is a strange place,” she told him. Her voice sounded distant, as if it belonged to someone else.

“You'll get used to it,” Wade said. “After a while you'll get used to it.” He had been scratching his skin under his shirt, and suddenly, as if he'd had enough of the discomfort, he unbuttoned the top buttons, exposing a large red shape on his chest. It looked like a tattoo—an undefined drawing she didn't recognize right away—but when she stepped closer, she saw that it was a scar. The skin was unmarred, with no hair, like a baby's.