The Cranberry Hush: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

Sam Adams in the drawer.” I put my hands
in my pockets and stood in front of the picture window for a moment before
drawing the dark floral curtains across it.
    “Sorry I slept so long,” he said. “That was probably kind of
rude.”
    “No, it’s fine. I don’t mind.”
    “What’d you do all day?” he said. He had the grapefruit
juice container in his hand. “Ah— Shoveling
the lady nextdoor ,” he read from the note I’d stuck on the fridge. “That
sounds hot. Or— But not as good as plowing .”
    I smiled.

 
    After finishing his pizza he sat down sideways in
the brown corduroy chair, legs draped over the arm, feet close to the fire. He
watched me flip through records for a moment and then grabbed the remote and
turned on the television. The screen looked like snow, a portal into twenty
hours ago.
    “Is it out or do you just not get cable?”
    “Cable shmable,” I said. “Use the rabbit ears.”
    “Right.” He rolled his eyes and turned off the TV.
    I held up two records I’d chosen from the stacker in the
cabinet. “The Cure or T-Rex?”
    He pointed to the T-Rex. As I was sliding the record out of
its sleeve he asked, “Do you have snow tires on your Jeep?”
    “Yeah.” I lifted the clear plastic cover. The Billie Holiday
was still on the turntable. “Why?”
    “Would you want to go for a drive or something?”
    “Now?”
    “Maybe just a quick spin to get some air? You haven’t been
out all day.”
    “I’ve been out most of the day.”
    “I mean out out.”
    I thought for a moment, slid the record back into the sleeve.
Being out was something to do, offered less chance for awkwardness.
    “OK,” I said. “Put on your boots.”

 
    The roads were still in pretty rough shape and
there weren’t many cars out other than us. My wipers swooshed back and forth, batting
the stubborn fine flakes that continued to fall. They didn’t seem to be
accumulating much anymore, just added a sugary dusting to the twenty inches
already there.
    On Oak Street wide piles lining the shoulders reduced it to
one lane. Ahead of us a plow turned onto the street. It rumbled toward us. Its revolving
orange lights were bright and it shrieked warnings at us to clear the road.
    “You need to make room,” Griff said helpfully.
    “Where’s he think he’s going?” I looked in the rearview; the
street behind us was clear but there weren’t any easy turnarounds. “One of us
needs to back up.”
    “Nah, there’s room,” Griff said. “It’s fine. Just pull over
a bit.”
    I turned the wheel and drove the Jeep onto the shoulder,
more hastily than I should’ve. The passenger side scraped against the snow bank
and the Jeep thumped to a spongy halt. Snowballs skittered across the hood. The
plow was in front of us now. I could feel the vibrations.
    “Hold your breath, here it comes,” Griff said. I wondered if
he was also one of those people who ducks when driving under a bridge.
    The plow passed us slowly. I could see each individual
snowflake clinging to the truck’s yellow paint—could see their fractal
patterns receding to icy infinity.
    “Sweatless,” Griff said.
    “Sure, you’re on the passenger side. I almost shit my pants.”
    I put the Jeep into drive and stepped on the gas, giving it
a little extra to get out of the snow. The rear tires spun and the Jeep didn’t
move. I put it in reverse and tried again, then tried forward again. Rocked
back and forth, no luck. I grumbled and squeezed the wheel.
    “I’ll check it out,” Griff said, but his door only opened a
few inches before crunching against the snow bank.
    “It’s OK.” I got out and walked around to the front,
steadying myself with a hand on a snow pile. The headlights spotlighted me and
inside the car I could see a wavy image of Griff obscured by the wipers. The
Jeep was half buried in the bank; its passenger-side tires had all but
disappeared. I got back in.
    “I should’ve just backed up,” I said, thumping my forehead
against