Light on snow_ a novel - Anita Shreve [58]
My father stands in a darkened hallway. He has a flashlight pointed toward the floor, and I can just make out his face.
“We’ve lost the power,” he says.
“What time is it?”
“Seven. Get dressed and come down to the den. And wake her up and get her down, too.” My father still won’t say her name. “And Nicky.”
“What?”
“Don’t you ever . . . and I mean ever . . . pull a stunt like that again.”
I concentrate on the spot of light on the floor.
“Another half hour and I wouldn’t have been able to find you,” he says. The fury is gone from his voice, but the parental scold is not.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I should hope so,” my father says in the dark.
I have to shake Charlotte’s shoulder to wake her. She sleeps with her face smashed against the pillow, her mouth slightly parted. I wonder, just before I touch her, what she dreams of. Of her boyfriend, whose name is James? Of Baby Doris before she was Baby Doris? Or are her dreams more specific and more terrifying—of a baby hidden beneath a mound of snow?
“The power’s out,” I tell her when she sits up. “We have to go down to the den. There’s a fireplace there.”
She seems disoriented. “What?” she asks.
“Dress warm,” I say.
“What time is it?”
“Seven. You’ve got a flashlight here on this table. Use it. Especially on the stairs.”
There’s a fire in the fireplace when I arrive in the den. A half-dozen candles have been lit and set on a side table and the coffee table. I know from prior experience to overdress. I have on two sweaters, long underwear under my jeans, and two pairs of socks. I can hear my father in the kitchen. I go to the window and peer out at the snow. The storm has stopped, and the cloud cover is breaking up. To the west are stars and the moon. I love the look of moonlight on the snow, the liquid blue of a molded landscape. Beside the sofa are two rolled sleeping bags. Normally these would be for my father and me, who would sleep close to the fire during the night, but I guess that now they will be for me and Charlotte. My father, I know, will not sleep in the same room as Charlotte.
My father enters the den. “She’s coming down?” he asks.
“Yup.”
“That sweater there, that’s for her.” A heavy gray sweater has been folded and set atop the armrest of the sofa.
“What are you making?” I ask.
“Scrambled eggs and bacon.”
My father will be able to stay warm in the kitchen by lighting the gas stove. That’s probably where he’ll sleep, I now realize.
I kneel in front of the fire, feeding it bits of kindling. There are two scorch marks in the wood floor where sparks landed when a log toppled. The inside of the fireplace is black with chimney soot.
Charlotte appears in the doorway. She has her pink sweater pulled tight across her chest. Her hair is freshly brushed, and her skin is rosy in the firelight.
“My dad’s making dinner,” I say. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“Me, too. I’m starving.”
Charlotte sits on the sofa with her arms crossed in front of her.
“What happened on the walk back?” I ask. “Did my dad say anything?”
“No,” she says.
“Not a word?”
“Nothing.”
“Wow,” I say, my generic response to all statements. My hand brushes the hem of her jeans. “They’re wet,” I say.
“Just damp.”
“You’ll freeze.”
“I’m all right.”
“Wait here.”
I climb the stairs to my father’s room. I search for a pile of clean laundry, distinguished from the dirty laundry on the floor only by the fact that the clean clothes are folded. My father’s pants will swim on Charlotte.
“I can’t,” Charlotte says when she sees what I’ve brought her.
“You can,” I say evenly. I’m not my father’s daughter for nothing. “Put these on. There’s a belt here. And that sweater there is for you. It’ll be warmer than your sweater.”
Charlotte hesitates, then stands. She takes the clothes and walks toward the front room.
“Hang your jeans to dry,” I call, “on a door or something.”
I set the trays and pour the milk, opening and shutting the fridge as if a wild animal were inside and wanted to escape. My father serves