Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

They padded across the family-room floor in their socks. They had stripped off most of the layers of clothing they’d been wearing and carried the rumpled, soggy shirts and sweaters in their arms. The woman, Jeff’s wife, came out of the kitchen. She was wearing bunny slippers, around-the-house jeans, her husband’s baggy Washington Redskins sweatshirt.

The man stopped at the bottom of the stairs. His brother kept going up to take a shower.

“How was it?” she asked.

“Cold. Cold as hell.”

“How’d you do?” She hadn’t seen them drive up.

“We did okay.”

“You got that big trophy you were hoping for?”

“We like to froze our asses off. But we did okay.” He paused. “It’s out in the truck, under the camper shell. You can go take a look at it if you want.”

She shuddered. “No, thanks.” She hated hunting. She never would look at anything he had killed.

“Suit yourself.” He shifted his clothing in his arms. He was wearing suspenders on his wool britches that hung low around his knees from where he’d pulled them off his shoulders when he was getting undressed. He was a big man, sinewy in his muscles, not turning to fat much yet. He still had all his hair. Of course, he wasn’t forty, not for a few months yet. The hair thing could still change.

“Are you cold now?”

“I’m warming up.”

“Do you want a bath? I could draw you a hot bath.”

“Naw, shower’ll do.”

“Dinner’ll be ready in about a half-hour.”

She went back into the kitchen. He trudged upstairs, feeling the weight of the heavy wool clothes on his arms.

He took a long shower; the needles of scalding water on his pale skin felt good. He stood under the water for a long time until he turned lobster-pink. It took awhile to feel clean and warm again, but after he had toweled off and put clean clothes on and had come down to join his brother in the family room for a highball before dinner, with the Sunday night football game droning on in the background, he was back to normal.

Dinner was chicken and dumplings, succotash, winter squash, salad. She had made apple brown betty for dessert. It was keeping warm in the oven.

“I figured you’d be hungry, out there in the cold and wet wind all day.”

“You figured right.” He forked in the food, his arm a machine with a hand and fork attached to the end of it.

“This is really good, Becky.” Bobby, his brother, smiled at her across the table. He was the younger by two years, and had always been nicer than his older brother. More eager to please.

“Thanks, Bobby.”

“Great, hon.” Her husband spoke through a mouthful of food.

“I’m glad you like it.”

She carried the dishes to the sink and let them soak in hot soapy water. The men sat in the family room in front of the television set, watching the game. She brought them each a bowl of apple brown betty with a dollop of Breyer’s vanilla ice cream on top.

She went upstairs and came down ten minutes later. She was dressed up. A clean blouse, fresh-pressed jeans, low-heel boots. A tan brocaded alpaca sweater her sister had given her for Christmas two years ago.

“I’m going out now,” she said. “I don’t know how late we’ll be, so don’t bother waiting up for me.”

“What’s tonight?”

“Knitting.” She held up her knitting bag. Balls of yarn and needles stuck out the top.

She was out more nights a week than she was in. Her knitting group, her book group, her bridge game. Volunteer Red Cross stuff. He couldn’t keep track of all her comings and goings. He didn’t bother trying. She did her thing, he did his. Once in a while they did something together.

“See you later.” He spooned up a mouthful of the hot dessert.

She pulled on her down-filled car coat. “See you.”

His brother called it a night when the football game was over. His flight home left early in the morning and he was bushed from the whipping they’d taken from the elements. “See you in the morning,” he said as he pushed up from the couch.

“Yeah. What time do you want to leave for the airport?” The airport was normally about a thirty-minute drive, but if the roads iced up overnight it could be slow going.

“The plane’s at seven-fifteen.”

“We’d better leave at six. You carrying on your luggage?”

“Yes.”

“Six, then. I’ll have coffee brewing.”

“Sounds good.” His brother started up the stairs to the guest bedroom.

“Hey, listen.” He hesitated. “Thanks.”

“You’re my brother. It had to be done.”