There were footprints, he saw, in the mud alongside the driveway. Wellington boots sunk deep into the mud and dried along the edges. And another set, just alongside. Bare feet—a man’s, presumably. But very, very large.
For Agnes Sorensen, Thanksgiving passed with several invitations to take the celebratory meal with neighbors or former coworkers or friends, who all would have welcomed her with open arms, but these were all denied.
She said simply that she would enjoy the quiet. But surely that made no sense! There had been no one on earth quieter than Mr. Sorensen. The man had hardly spoken.
And so her neighbors carved their turkeys and their hams, they sliced pie and drank to one another’s health, but their minds wandered to the pretty widow with hair like starlight, her straight back, her slim skirts and smart belts, and her crisp footsteps when she walked. People remembered her lingering smell—the forest and the blooming meadow and some kind of animal musk. Something that clung to the nose and pricked at the skin and set the mouth watering. And they masked their longing with another helping of yams.
(Only the three sisters on the Parish Council didn’t see what the big fuss was about. They had always thought she was plain.)
Randall Jergen—not the worst drunkard in town, but well on his way to becoming so—claimed that, when he stumbled past the Sorensen house by mistake, he saw the widow seated at the head of the well-laid table, heaped to the point of breaking with boiled potatoes and candied squash and roasted vegetables of every type and description. Each chair was filled, not with relatives or friends or even acquaintances, but with animals. He reported two dogs, one raccoon, one porcupine, one lynx, and an odd-looking bear sitting opposite the pretty widow. A bear who grasped its wine goblet and held it aloft to the smiling Mrs. Sorensen, who raised her own glass in response.
The Insufferable Sisters investigated. They found no evidence of feasting. And while they did see the dogs, the tiny cat, the raccoon, the lynx, and the porcupine, they saw no sign of a wine-drinking bear. Which, they told themselves, they needed to know whether or not was true. Drunken bears, after all, were a community safety hazard. They reported to the stylists at the Clip ’n’ Curl that Mr. Jergen was, as usual, full of hogwash. By evening, the whole town knew. And the matter was settled.
For a little while.
By Christmas, there had been no fewer than twenty-seven reports of Sasquatch sightings near, or around, or on the Sorensen farm. Two people claimed to have seen a Sasquatch wearing a seed cap with the glass factory’s logo on it, and one swore that it was wearing Mr. Sorensen’s old coat. The sheriff, two deputies, the game manager at the local private wildlife refuge, and three representatives from the Department of Natural Resources all paid the widow a visit. They all left the farm looking dejected. Mrs. Sorensen was not, apparently, available for drinks, or dinner, or dancing. She gave their questions crisp answers that could have meant anything. She watched them go with a vague smile on her pale lips.
The Insufferable Sisters investigated as well. They looked for footprints and boot prints. They looked for discarded hats and thrown-off coats. They hunted for evidence of possible suitors. They interviewed witnesses. They found nothing.
By late January, neighbors noticed that Mrs. Sorensen had begun to walk with a lightness—despite the parka and the heavy boots, despite the sheepskin mitts and the felted scarf, her feet floated atop the surface of the snow, and her skin sparkled, even on the most leaden of days.
Bachelors and widowers (and, if honesty prevails, several uncomfortably married men as well) still opened doors for the pretty widow, still tipped their hats in her direction, still offered to carry her groceries or see to her barn’s roof, or check to make sure her pipes weren’t in danger of freezing (this last one was often said suggestively, and almost always returned with a definitive slap). The Insufferable Sisters arrived, unannounced, at the Sorensen farm. They came laden with hotdish and ambrosia salad and bars of every type and description. They sat the poor widow down, put the kettle on, and tapped their long, red talons on the well-oiled wood of the ancient farm table.
“Well?” said Mrs. Ostergaard, the eldest of the sisters.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Sorensen, her cheeks flushing to high color. “The tea is in the top drawer of the far right cabinet.” Her eyes slid to the window, where the snowflakes fell in thick curtains, blurring the blanketed yard, and obscuring the dense thicket of scrub and saplings on the other side of the gully. The corners of her lips buzzed with—something. Mrs. Ostergaard couldn’t tell. And it infuriated her.
Mrs. Lentz, the youngest of the sisters, and Mrs. Ferris, the middle, served the lunch, arranging the food in sensibly sized mounds, each one slick and glistening. They piled the bars on pretty plates and put real cream in the pitcher and steaming tea in the pot. They sat, sighed, smiled, and interrogated the pretty widow. She answered questions and nodded serenely, but every time there was a lull in the conversation (and there were many), her eyes would insinuate themselves toward the window again, and a deepening blush would spread down her throat and edge into the opening of her blouse.
The dogs lounged on the window seat and the raccoon picked at its bowl on the floor of the mudroom. Three cats snaked through the legs of the three sisters, with their backs an insistent arch, their rumps requiring a rub, and all the while an aggressive purr rattling the air around them.
“Nice kitty,” Mrs. Ostergaard said, giving one cat a pat on the head.
The cat hissed.
The sisters
