Cover of Snow by Jenny Milchman Read Free Book Online Page B

out the branches of his mind. Kindness paired with a lack of understanding about basic physical realities, such as what happens when cotton gets wet, or the fact that my boots would’ve protected me much better than his flimsy shirt.
    The temperature was starting to wear on me by the time he returned with a small box. He crouched by my car, fiddling while I wrapped my arms around myself, wondering at his lack of response to the burning cold.
    Why was I standing out here? It wasn’t as if my help was needed. I started to turn and go inside—deliberating over whether to provide any explanation or excuse—when he spoke up.
    â€œI’m awful sad about Brendan.”
    The cold took hold of me then, and didn’t let go. “Did you know Brendan?” Then I paused. “Do you know me?”
    â€œKnow,” he echoed, and I was about to pose another question when he went on, his tone making the words freeze on my lips. “Go, slow, row to hoe.”
    â€œRhymes,” I said senselessly, wanting to get out of there. Why hadn’t I gone to the Mobil? I didn’t know if this person was brain-injured or mentally retarded or some other variation of differently-abled—all deserving of equal rights and fair treatment and anything else they might want, only not by me, not right now anyway. I had to get to the pharmacy.
    â€œWant to turn ’em on?”
    â€œWhat?” It came out more of a cry. I didn’t understand anything anymore.
    â€œYour lights.” He gestured to where he’d been working.
    â€œOh.” My face grew hot despite the chill. “Sure.” I stepped off the sodden sweatshirt, drowned now in the lot, and went to sit down on the front seat.
    â€œWorks real well!” the boy-man said with delight. “Visible even in broad daylight.” A pause. “
Risible
is the only one.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œ
Miserable
—no, that’s cheating …”
    Another rhyme, I realized belatedly. I leaned forward, but didn’t close my door. “Thanks for taking care of this.”
    â€œMs. Hamilton …” he said, and I frowned again.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThat’ll be sixteen dollars. Just the cost of the light. Labor’s on the house.”
    â€œOh,” I said, starting to reach for my bag. “Right. Thank you.”
    â€œThat was his. Long time ago,” he said, and I followed his gaze to the sack I used as both briefcase and purse, a castoff of Brendan’s when he decided against law school.
    So this person had indeed known my husband, in which case my uppermost guess about his age was probably closest to the truth. As I trailed him back to the garage to pay, I wondered if he knew anything else.
    â€œI used to watch him skate,” he said, opening the cash register.
    Relief, which I didn’t entirely understand, sank into me, weighing me down. Brendan couldn’t have known this person, then, nor vice versa. In the eight long winters we’d lived up here, Brendan had never once set foot on a lake. He wouldn’t join the hockey team the cops all played on. Brendan felt clumsy on ice, a standing he couldn’t abide. He liked to be good at things—taking double black diamond trails easily, expert with a pickax and ropes—and consequently had always seemed to display an aversion to skating.
    â€œBoy, did they have fun.”
    â€œWho?” I burst out. “Who are you?” I added, hoping my rudeness might pass unnoticed amongst all the other things this person didn’t seem to understand.
    He trudged over to the dirty desk, pulling open a drawer that protested with a metallic shriek. He handed me a business card, the kind torn from a perforated sheet.
    Dugger Mackenzie. Al’s Gas & Service. Tender, loving care for your automobile
.
    â€œDugger?” I said, and he grinned.
    â€œNot like that.” The grin washed away. His face looked almost