The geese had turned at Cork’s approach, anticipating the corn he carried in the bucket. They paddled nearer, but held off coming ashore. Cork kicked at the snow with his boots, clearing a circle all the way to the frozen ground.
“Just pour it in there, Annie,” he said.
She spread the corn around the circle, then they walked away a dozen steps. Romeo and Juliet waddled through the snow to the corn and began noisily to feed. They watched Cork and Anne carefully.
“Do you think they’d ever eat from our hands?” Anne asked hopefully.
“Most animals can be tamed, I suppose,” Cork replied. “The question is, do you really want to? Make them tame and they become easy prey for people not as kindly disposed toward them as you are.”
“People would hurt them?” she asked, appalled at the idea.
“Some would. Just for the pleasure of it. Come on. They’ll be fine now.” He started back to the hut.
Inside, Cork took a moment to listen to his answering machine. He frowned at Annie after he heard the worried voice of his sister-in-law.
“You didn’t tell your aunt Rose you were coming?”
“I did,” Anne insisted. “She was reading a recipe, so maybe she didn’t hear.”
It was possible. Rose would be oblivious to a nuclear attack if she were deeply involved in the intricacies of a new recipe. But it was also possible that Anne had used her inattention to sneak away. It wasn’t that Rose would have minded her coming, but, given Rose’s ability to see disaster at every turn, she probably wouldn’t have allowed her niece to come so far from home in the storm.
Cork called and explained to his sister-in-law, who sounded so relieved she forgot to be angry. Cork said he’d bring Anne right home.
As they stepped outside to the Bronco, Annie looked through the blowing snow toward the open water of the lake.
“Will they be all right?” she asked.
“I expect so. As long as the water doesn’t freeze and we give them plenty of grain.”
“I worry about them. I pray for them. Do you think it’s all right to pray for geese?”
“It’s all right to pray for just about anything, I suppose.”
She looked at him, her face red from the wind and the cold. “You don’t.”
“I let you do the praying for both of us these days, sweetheart. You do a better job of it than I ever could.”
They got into the Bronco. Cork pulled out across the tracks toward Center Street.
“Know what I pray for most?” Anne said, staring through her window at the snow as it swirled around them.
“What?”
“That you and Mom get back together.”
Cork was quiet. Then he said, “It never hurts to pray.”
The house on Gooseberry Lane was big, two stories, white with dark gray shutters and a wraparound porch. Out front stood a huge American elm, and in the backyard, a red maple nearly as large. Lilac bushes formed a tall hedge on the north side, and south was a grape arbor. The house had been the home of his mother’s parents, then had belonged to his own parents. When Cork’s father was killed, his mother had turned it into a boardinghouse. It was never a luxurious life, and Cork always worked to help bring in income, but they managed to keep the house and to hold together and, as Cork remembered it, to be happy.
All the houses on the block were similar-old, shaded in summer, quiet. There wasn’t a single fence to be seen, and Cork had always taken issue with the assertion that fences made good neighbors. Until Jo had asked him to leave, Cork had been quite happy to call Gooseberry Lane his home, and the people who lived there his neighbors.
He used his garage door opener and parked next to Jo’s blue Toyota Cressida. Her car had two bumper stickers. One said, “Sandy Parrant for U.S. Senate” and the other, in true political jingoism, said, “Just look at the candidates. The difference is aParrant.” The election was long over. Parrant had won. Cork thought it was high time Jo got rid of the bumper stickers.
He made his way to the back door with Annie. Stepping into the kitchen, he was greeted by the aroma of baking ham.
“Smells delicious, Rose,” Cork said. He hung his parka and cap on wall hooks beside the door.
He could tell his sister-in-law was trying to be upset with him. She nodded in response to his complimentary greeting, then went to the oven, opened the door, and bent to check inside. She was wearing floral stretch pants that didn’t at all flatter her wide hips and thighs. She had on a baggy red sweater and old blue canvas slip-ons. Her hair was dull brown like road dust, and her fleshy arms were covered with freckles. She was nothing like her sister, Jo, in appearance or temperament, and if Cork hadn’t known better he’d have guessed that one of them had been adopted.
“Sure miss your cooking.” Cork grinned.
Rose smiled despite herself. But she set stern eyes on Annie, who was trying to slip through the kitchen unnoticed. “I was worried sick, Anne.”
“I told you where I was going, Aunt Rose,” Anne argued politely. “But I guess you didn’t hear. You were reading that recipe for Christmas pudding.”
“I was?” Rose glanced at a cookbook open on the kitchen table. “Still, you should have called when it got to be so late.”
“My fault, Rose,” Cork said. “She was helping me with some chores.”
“Well.” Rose considered Anne a moment more. “Go clean up. Dinner will be ready shortly. And you-” She turned to Cork with a scowl, then smiled. “Would you like to stay? There’s plenty of food.”
“Where’s Jo?”
“Down the hall in her office. She’d like to talk with you.”
“I might not be welcome for dinner after.”
“You know that’s not true,” Rose said. “Just let me know and I’ll have Jenny set another place.” She turned back to the stove, picked up a wooden spoon, and began stirring something in the saucepan.
In the living room, Cork found his five-year-old son, Stevie, on his belly playing with Legos. The television was on, tuned to cartoons. Stevie rolled over at his father’s approach and shouted, “Daddy!”
Cork knelt down. “What’s up, buddy?”
Stevie held out a Lego creation, something like a house. “Jail,” he said.
“Good one, too,” Cork told him. “Who’s it for?”
Stevie’s eyes turned devilish. “You.”
“ Hmmmm. Am I the sheriff of this jail?”
Stevie shook his head.
“I’m the crook? Well then, let me show you what they put me in for.”
He wrestled with his son awhile. “You’re getting too tough for an old man like me,” he finally said.
“Feel.” Stevie flexed his skinny arm. Cork felt mostly bone but made a face full of admiration. Stevie turned his attention back to cartoons.
Jenny, Cork’s fourteen-year-old daughter, came into the room from the hallway. She gave her father only a glance before she curled up on the sofa with a book in her lap. He could tell by the way she looked at him that she was reflecting some of her mother’s mood. The whole house seemed suffused with the quiet cold of Jo’s anger.
“Hi, kiddo. Where’s your mother?”
“In her office, working. She’s waiting to talk with you.”
He looked at the book in her lap. “What’s that?”
“Mrs. Cavanaugh asked me to do a reading for the Christmas program next week.”
“What reading?”
“Whatever I want. A poem, I think. I’m going to read something by Sylvia Plath.”
“Didn’t she kill herself?”
“She was a very intelligent woman.”
“What poem?”
