The Woman

by Jack Ketchum

  “It’s Brian’s turn. The dogs can wait.”

  He put down the brush and sipped his coffee. A good Jamaican blend they sold down at Kristy’s, thirty dollars a pound, ground for paper. He lit a Winston and sat back in his chair.

  “Peg’ll be fine,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

  She looked at him with that look she had. She’d gotten that look directly from her mother. There’s a saying, you want to know the kind of woman you’re marrying? Check out the mother. Over the years he’d found that to be more true than not. Her mother had this expression she wore that was half worry and half concentration. Like she had some math problem in front of her and wasn’t so sure of her equations.

  They sipped their coffee in silence.

  He finished his cigarette and drained his coffee and packed away the cleaning gear in his Otis kit — rods, brushes, flannel patches, each in its place. Zippered up, it was about the size of his hand. But then he had big hands. He slipped the Remington into its nylon camouflage floating case and zippered that too.

  “I’m gone,” he said. He stood up from the table, shouldered the rifle and clipped the kit to his belt. “Wish me luck, hon.”

  “Luck,” she said. “You want a thermos?”

  “Nah. I’m floating already.”

  And then he was out the door. He closed it quietly behind him so as not to wake the dogs out in the barn in front and crossed the yard to the Escalade parked beside Belle‘s little blue Toyota. It was still a bit chilly in the damp night air but the day promised to be a warm one. The sky was clear and full of stars. He caught the paper-and-wood smoke smell off the burn barrel. He didn’t want it on him.

  He slipped into the Escalade and slammed the door.

  Let the dogs go crazy now. He wasn’t there and it was almost dawn.

  ~ * ~

  Four hours later he was sitting on a rock on a hillside overlooking the wild blueberry patch where last Autumn he’d bagged a six-point whitetail buck. He was upwind, surrounded by scrub and pine. It had been a long climb and then a long wait. And so far, nothing. He’d gone through half a pack of Winstons. Two strips of beef jerky and a packet of salted peanuts. He’d resisted the Cutty in his canteen and stuck with bottled water. But maybe it was time to move on.

  He took one last scan through the Leupold. All he saw were a pair of black-backed gulls headed for the shoreline about a mile away.

  He was down to birdwatching here.

  Maybe the stream, he thought. The sun was getting high. A deer might want a drink.

  ~ * ~

  He planted himself in a thicket, behind him a tall stand of white birch. From here he had a clear view of the stream running fast below. He was upwind again and risked a few pulls on the Cutty. Which burned down nicely. With the scope he scanned the stream. He took another pull and then his eye went back to the scope and he damn near fell over on his ass.

  The lady was naked to the waist.

  ~ * ~

  She has waded deep into the cool stream. The water is up to her calves and then her thighs. She bends down and cups it in her hands and drinks. The water tastes of stones and fallen leaves.

  She peels the brown weeds carefully from her side. They are stained with her blood. They drift on down the stream. She cups more water in her hands and bathes her wounds. This is good. This is soothing. There is only a little blood, a seep of bright red. She splashes water over her face, her arms, her breasts. Kneels and lets the water bathe the wounds in its own way.

  She puts her arms out in front of her and feels the slimed stone bottom of the stream and dips her head under. The rocks are smooth as flesh. She is trembling in the water. The water rolls over her and through her like a cold and gentle hand. She lifts her head and gasps for breath and kneels again and that is when she sees it, slowly gliding by.

  The stream’s gift to her.

  It was so swift that had Cleek blinked he’d have missed it.

  But he didn’t blink.

  One moment she was kneeling in water up to her waist, hair dripping over her face and neck and shoulders like some risen — if grimy — nymph in a storybook and the next moment her hand rose up out of the stream and in that hand was a knife, a big one, which plunged back into the water with a speed that astounded him, a sideways slash across her body down and under.

  A quick flick of the wrist and the knife surfaced again. And skewered neatly just below the gills was one of the biggest Canadian brook trout he’d ever seen.

  Twenty inches easy, a two-to-three-pounder.

  Another flick of the wrist — harder this time — and she’d thrown the trout clear off the knife to leave it wriggling its death-dance on the shore.

  He watched her lay back in the stream, eyes closed, only her breasts and face showing above the water. If her face was not, her breasts were beautiful and lolled gently to either side, the nipples puckered dark and wide.

  He held the Remington steady.

  A while later she rolled to her knees and stood and waded through the water to the shore. The trout lay still. She stooped, impaled it with the knife again, took two more steps and then stopped.

  She appeared to scent the air.

  Cleek’s hands trembled as he slowly lowered the rifle against the potential glint of sunlight on the scope.

  She looked left and right. Far and near. Her gaze passed him over.

  He realized he’d been holding his breath ever since she stopped. His heart pounded. He wondered if he was afraid of her.

  It was possible.

  In her way she was magnificent. Like some large dangerous animal. The wide powerful shoulders, the long ropy muscles of her arms and thighs. She glistened in the sunlight. At this distance without the scope he couldn’t see the dirt still matted in her hair, though he knew it was there. He couldn’t see the scars.

  All he could see was this creature standing there.

  After a time she seemed satisfied she was alone and turned away from him then and stepped out on the path that led around the stream.

  Cleek knew what he had to do. There was only one thing he could do.

  He waited awhile. Then made his way down through the scrub and pitch pine and followed.

  ~ * ~

  She led him along on narrow deer paths, some of which even he didn’t know were there though he’d hunted this stretch of land for years. He kept his distance and would have lost her several times were it not for the scope. He was lucky. He was upwind of her all the time. The wind was blowing from the sea and that was where they seemed to be headed.

  On a hill overlooking the shore he hunkered down in the tall yellow sweetgrass and watched her pull fresh seaweed from the tidepools and dress her wounds again. The woman was no fool. Seaweed was rich in iron, potassium and iodine and would go a long way fast toward her healing. The wounds were fresh. He wondered how she’d gotten them.

  When she’d fastened the weeds to her side with her belt again she paused and stared out to sea. The sea was calm today. Turns and gulls wheeled through the sky beneath long thin streaks of cirrus clouds. The woman seemed to relish the same easy breeze which stirred the grass around him.

  He pulled on the scotch and waited.

  In a while she turned and walked up the pebbled shoreline to a narrow strip of sand. This, he thought, might be trouble. The sand extended for at least half a mile before falling back to pebble again and there was very little cover. If he needed to follow further he’d be doing it mostly in the open. But he was lucky. She walked only a few yards and then started up toward the rockface. He scanned it through the slope and saw her destination.

  A cave. The woman was headed for a goddamn cave.

  He wondered if there were more like her inside.

  What the hell, he thought, let’s wait and see.

  He made himself comfortable. Took a strip of jerky from his pack. Washed it down with some Cutty. When the jerky was gone he lit a Winston and then another and another.

  More Cutty. More jerky.
>
  He was not by nature a very patient man unless he was hunting. But he was hunting here in a way, wasn’t he? And he had plenty of jerky and plenty of cigarettes and could make do with what was left of the whiskey.

  He judged it was going be a while.

  ~ * ~

  It was.

  Dusk was falling when through the lens of the Leupold he saw the wisps of smoke from inside the cave wave and wrap around the drifting strips of moss. Saw the faint flickering glow from within.

  In all that time she had not emerged again.

  Another man might have been disappointed. Chris wasn’t. Not at all. A little chilly but not disappointed.

  That no one else had appeared was a good thing.

  Plus he’d given it some thought and had taken the cave’s measure.

  Steep rough granite surrounded the narrow entrance. A small grassy cliff maybe ten feet directly above. There were other deep indentations in the stone on either side all along the shoreline — worn away by the centuries-old pull and push of wind — but only the single cave as far as he could see.

  His guess was that she was tucked in cozy for the night.

  He policed his butts and shouldered the Remington. Time to head on home.

  It was almost dinner time.

  FIVE

  The house was northern white cedar, rot-resistant and durable. It was pre-fab but certainly didn’t look it. The foundation was fieldstone. The stairs and porch were solid granite. Cleek was proud of his house. He’d built it with the money his old man had left him shortly after he and Belle were married and he‘d picked up his father’s law practice. Two floors, three baths, three bedrooms. They hadn’t expected Darlin’ but that was okay, Peg didn’t mind bunking with her little sister at all. Peg was a good girl.

  He pulled up in front of it and the dogs were barking in the barn behind him as soon as he got out of the car. Brian was shooting hoops in the driveway beneath the flood lights. He missed one. Rebounded. Dribbled.

  “How’s the average?”

  He shrugged. “Seven for ten. Pretty consistent.”

  He wondered if the boy was fibbing to him. Decided it didn’t matter much one way or the other. Chris wasn’t about to make his son prove it to him.

  “Good. That’s good.”

  “You get anything?”

  “Do I look like I got anything?”

  “Mom’s baking us a ham.”

  “I’ve got something I need you all to do for me before dinner.”

  “Okay.”

  “Wait out here.”

  “Sure, dad.”

  ~ * ~

  “I should turn down the ham,” Belle said.

  “Fine, you do that.”

  She turned the oven down from two fifty to two hundred. The ham was bone-in, glazed with a brown sugar, mustard, lime and ginger sauce. It needed to be basted every twenty minutes. She didn’t want it to burn.

  “Come on,” he said. “Come with me.”

  “Me too?” said Darlin’.

  He smiled and took her by the hand. “Sure, sweetie. You too.”

  He led them down the front steps across the stone and gravel path to the fruit cellar just left of the barn. Peg plodded along behind her. He waved to Brian.

  “Follow us, son.”

  What the hell’s he want down there this time of the evening? Belle thought. I’m cooking his dinner. There wasn’t any point in asking though.

  It was a wooden cellar door painted barn-red, chipped and rough in places, set at a slight angle off the ground. Belle was still lobbying him for a steel one. It would help keep the weather out of her preserves. But she guessed that for Chris a new cellar door just wasn’t a priority. Or maybe the old one reminded him of his father’s — back when they still had the farm. She didn’t know.

  He used the key on the padlock. Hauled the door up and open.

  “Watch your step now.”

  At the base of the narrow stone stairway he turned on the light. A single bright bulb overhead.

  Belle had never much liked the cellar. It smelled of old dead air, musty, of earth and mold and rust. She could hear crickets somewhere nearby chirping away. There was shelving on all sides. Her preserves were neatly arranged on a pair of them directly to her left. The preserves were her only reason to go down here. Below them just above the old concrete sink, jars of nails, screws and brackets which Chris hardly, if ever, used. All of them opaque with grime. His father’s old tools. On the floor, a trunk, a pile of board games the kids had grown out of, a tricycle with a broken wheel which had once belonged to Brian — Chris had planned to fix that up for Darlin’ but bought her a new one instead — an old rusty wagon and a Flexible Flyer which hadn’t been flexible for years.

  Piles of junk. Empty water and Clorox bottles. Aluminum cans. Paint cans. Boxes of her mother’s 78rpm records, probably all warped by now. Belle’s old ironing board and iron. Boxes of magazines and books. Why were they saving textbooks that belonged to Peggy ten years ago? A folding table-and-chairs set that would probably never see a card-party again. Standing lamps. Table lamps. A Polaroid camera.

  Chris couldn’t let go of anything.

  Which is why what he said surprised the hell out of her.

  “I’m gonna need you to clean out all this junk from the south end of the cellar. To about midway through. Sweep the floor.”

  Peggy sighed. “Before dinner?”

  “Yes, honey. Before dinner.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your dad wants you to. You don’t have a problem with that now, do you Brian?”

  “Nah. Where do you want us to put all this stuff?”

  “Throw it in the dump trailer. If it’s small and burnable, put it in the burn barrel. You’ll need some gloves. There’s a few pair out in the barn. You feed the dogs yet?”

  “It’s Peggy’s turn.”

  “Peg?”

  She sighed again. The girl was big on sighing these days.

  “Oh, all right. I’ll feed the dogs. I’ll get the gloves.”

  “Good girl.”

  Belle watched her trudge up the stairs.

  “Are there mice down here?” asked Darlin’.

  “Could be,” Chris said.

  “Should I get some cheese?”

  Chris patted her head. Even Belle had to smile. Their daughter was pretty adorable.

  “Nah, honey,” Chris said. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  He turned to Belle. “You organize things down here, okay? With the three of you? Shouldn’t take too long. Keep this little one out of trouble. I’ve got things to do upstairs.”

  “Chris? Why are we doing this? I mean…”

  “You’ll see. Trust me on this one.”

  She repressed her own urge to sigh. Trust me was one of his favorite phrases. Usually she did — and things worked out okay in the end. But there was something really odd about this. Why now? She guessed he was off on one of his little projects again. When that was the case there was no stopping him. She’d known Chris Cleek for over twenty years and was fully aware that for a lawyer her husband could be a highly impulsive man. Only last summer he got it into his head at ten in the evening to paint the barn doors a darker shade of red than the rest of it. Thought it would look better. So there he was, working under the floodlights until well after twelve, coming to bed smelling of Dutch Boy and turpentine.

  She called to him on the stairs.

  “Check the oven, will you? Maybe do a basting for me?”

  “Will do, cap’n,” he said.

  ~ * ~

  Agnes, George and Lily greeted Peg warmly. To say the least. They were all over her when she stepped into the cage — the entire north side of the barn — to retrieve their food and water dishes, presenting heads and necks and floppy ears for scratching and three warm wet tongues. They were big dogs. Forty to fifty pounds at least she guessed. You had to watch your balance when they got up on their hind legs on you. She indulged them awhile. In tru
th that while she griped at having to do the chore she didn’t really mind. How could you hate handling a dog?

  Even Agnes, the mother, who could be nippy — who could be damn nippy with everybody but Peg, even with her own pups — elicited a kind of warmth in her exceeded only by her affection for Darlin’. Peg didn’t question it. It was just there.

  Dogs were like big sloppy children.

  Unless of course you fucked with them.

  When she stepped outside the cage to hose off the dishes and closed the chain-link door they all set to barking. She thought that nothing else on earth has a voice like a coonhound. It was a voice bred to command the night. To be heard from literally miles away, trailable in full darkness. In the enclosed space of the barn they were like a series of small sonic booms.

  They quieted again when she returned with the dishes, snuffing at her legs and heels as she set them in their given places along the concrete floor. Then shrunk away when she brought in the hose. The dogs were wary of the hose. The hose meant fresh water or a clean floor but it could also mean a bath, which they didn’t particularly want. Or under higher pressure, in the hands of Brian or her father, occasionally worse.

  She didn’t like to think about that.

  She filled the three water dishes and the one inside the doghouse, rolled the hose up and draped it on its hook, pried open the lid of the metal food bin and set to scooping out kibble. The dogs dug in. She filled the dish inside the silent doghouse too — filled that one carefully and gingerly.

  She shut the cage door and found three sets of work-gloves neatly stacked on a shelf amid her father’s tools.

  She left the dogs amidst chomping sounds and flying drool.

  They were always hungry.

  As always she felt a twinge of guilt at closing the barn doors on them. Cutting them off. There was a time they were allowed free run of the yard. Now they only got out on nights when her father and his friends wanted to do some coon hunting. Which wasn’t all that often anymore. And these guys were meant to run.

  They were hunters. Her dad said they could pull down a deer if he let them.

  As always she put those thoughts behind her.

  She had other chores to do. She had not the slightest idea why.