Page 40 of Cold, Cold Bones

“Most of these men have absolutely nothing. Many are sick. Many are addicted, either to drugs or alcohol. Many are totally alone with nowhere to turn.”

“Can’t they—”

“And a lot of them are vets. They did their service and now society treats them like shit.” Intense wouldn’t do justice to her tone.

She reached for the door handle. I noticed that her hand was still trembling.

I’d helped Katy through skinned knees and science projects gone bad. Walked her through puberty. Counseled her during crises of academics, friendship, and self-esteem.

Like any mother, I’d consoled my daughter in matters of the body and the heart. It was challenging, often exhausting. The breast lump that turned out to be benign. The fenderbender that ended up costing a mere $300 for repairs. The lost ID that we found in her bathrobe pocket. All these calamities would be followed, within a day, by Katy’s bouncing back to her cheerful, unruffled self. Coop’s death had been the exception, of course. But this time also seemed different.

Much as I longed for solitude—the stew, the bath, the judgmental cat—Katy didn’t look as though she should be alone.

“Remember our snowed-in parties?” I asked. Chirped? “Would you like to stay at my place tonight? Have one of those?”

She said nothing.

When I turned sideways, intending to repeat my offer, Katy was staring past me, her spine rigid and angled toward the dash. Her body was motionless, her hands tightly clenched in her lap. The Mazda’s interior was black due to the snowy accumulation on its windows. Only Katy’s eyes were visible, dark and wide and full of fear.

Her altered demeanor stopped my breath. She seemed to be somewhere far from the car and the snow. From Charlotte. From me.

Was she reliving some horror I would never understand? Or perhaps shehadheard my invitation and was considering options.

When she spoke again, her voice was low and calm.

“You must think I’m royally fucked up.”

“Of course, I don’t.” I did. “But I am concerned about you.”

“You sound like a therapist.”

I said nothing.

“I overreacted,” she said, offering a small, self-deprecating laugh. “The big bad soldier freaked out by a storm.”

I waited for her to go on. Across Kenmore, I could hear two kids arguing about the best way to roll a snowball on their lawn. Stage one of Frosty, I assumed. Their voices were muffled by the shrubbery and the curtain of flakes between us. Far off, a siren wailed softly.

I sensed more than saw a change in Katy’s body language. She debated with herself, decided. That decision was another exit ramp.

“Not tonight,” she said, unbuckling her belt. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

Maybe it was fatigue, or frustration, or all her evasiveness since returning home. I lost it.

“Oh, no you don’t, young lady. I want to know what’s going on!” I exploded. “You phone me at work in a panic, say you don’t feel safe, and mention some creep who’s scaring you. I drop everything and race to the shelter. When I arrive, you bolt through the door like the place is on fire. In the car, you act as jumpy as a cricket on a fry pan. Then it’s, ‘Thanks for coming to get me’ with no explanation of why you can barely goddam breathe!”

The force of my anger shocked her. She sat paralyzed inside our dark cocoon, a catatonic cut-out against the opaque glass beside her.

“I’m guessing this isn’t totally about snow.” Now I was the one fighting for control. “What’s the deal with this creep, as you labeled him?”

She held a moment, then settled back into the seat. The tension seemed to drain from her shoulders. As before, she turned inward,hosting another session with herself. Choosing a starting point? Weighing alternatives? Considering more evasions? The truth?

I waited.

Finally, she began. Her first words indicated the path she’d chosen. She’d share, but only so much. It was a tactic she’d used since learning to talk.

“Some odd characters frequent the shelter.”

I considered that an understatement.