Part 6
On the first hard freeze of the following November, Ruth waited in the kitchen for Jenna, who was due at six. The back of the house had changed shape.
A ramp curved up from the drive. The kitchen door had a lever handle, and a heat pump carried the rooms through most cold days without Ruth hauling wood. Mavis and Ed held the code to an outdoor lockbox. Ruth carried her phone even to the bird feeder and wore the alert button she had once dismissed as something for old people. Her right toes remained numb at the tips, and on damp mornings pain made the cane necessary. The house was safer, though none of the work made it new.
Both daughters had entered pleas by fall. Claire admitted exceeding Ruth’s consent under the power of attorney and locking her outside to force the sale. Jenna admitted taking the money after she knew where it came from and failing to open the door.
Claire wrote one letter a month. The first three contained explanations arranged as neatly as medicine charts. The fourth described Tom laughing with shaving cream under one ear. Ruth answered with a memory of Claire at eight, sorting seed packets while Tom mixed them up to make her boss him. She did not call the answer forgiveness, and Claire did not ask her to.
Jenna had found work in the kitchen of a senior apartment complex, rising before dawn to bake rolls for people who complained when the crust was too hard and saved half in napkins anyway. Each month, an automatic restitution payment reduced the disputed credit-line balance.
At six-ten, headlights turned into the drive. Ruth watched from the kitchen as Jenna parked beside the ramp and sat for a few seconds with both hands on the wheel. She carried a paper bag to the door and knocked.
She had once entered without knocking, calling from whatever room she reached first. Now she waited outside in a wool hat that made her look sixteen and uncertain.
Ruth did not hurry. She set her cane against the table, checked that the kettle was off its burner, and crossed the kitchen at the pace her feet allowed.
When she opened it, Jenna held up the bag. “The cardamom buns spread sideways. They taste right, but they look like throw pillows.”
“Your grandfather made worse.”
“You always said his were rustic.”
“He was sleeping with the baker.”
Jenna laughed, startled into it. Ruth stepped aside.
“Come in before the heat leaves.”
Jenna wiped her boots on the mat and removed them without being asked. She placed the paper bag on the counter, then stopped beside the cupboard.
“Can I get the mugs?”
“Second shelf. Not the blue one; its handle gets hot.”
They cut one misshapen bun in half and argued mildly over whether Tom had used cardamom or allspice.
After dark, Jenna carried seed to the galvanized can while Ruth watched from the doorway. A skim of snow had begun to hold on the lower field, just enough to show what crossed it. Near the spruce, beyond the reach of the porch light, four prints came out of the trees.
Three landed deep and straight. The fourth swept a shallow mark along the white surface.
Ruth put on her glasses. The trail kept well away from the house, following the creek toward the old line shack and the ridge beyond. No animal appeared between the trunks. There was only the measured track of something that had survived long enough to know where the wind broke.
“Is that her?” Jenna asked from behind Ruth.
“Could be.”
“Should we leave something out?”
Ruth shook her head. “She has her own life.”
They stood until the falling snow softened the edges of the fourth print. Then Ruth closed the door, turned the lock from the inside, and went back to the stove to fill Jenna’s cup.