Page 20 of Embers

We work together and sleep in the same room and eat silent meals across the table from each other, but we don’t share anything else. It wasn’t like Cal was ever soft or open with me, but he’d been talking, occasionally laughing, acting like I was a companion and not an inconvenient burden. Maybe if I was older or smarter or more experienced, I’d be able to get him to change back. I try. I really do. But I simply can’t get him back to the man I know is really him.

I do insist on a few things he initially refused. I keep trimming his hair, and I keep rubbing him with lotion every evening, but I do it in a quick, no-nonsense manner and try very hard not to think about his body. It hurts me. It feels like a loss, but by the time winter comes, the almost pleasant, companionable days of the spring and early summer are no more than a distant memory.

Cal is right about the winter. It’s the coldest one I can ever remember. It’s like the planet reared up in defense after the asteroid hit, lashing out with every kind of natural weapon it possesses in response to the unprovoked attack.

Winters in what used to be Kentucky are not supposed to be so cold.

Thanks to our preparations, December goes fairly smoothly. We’ve got plenty of wood chopped for the stove and tons of food stocked up, so we don’t have to go out in the cold for anything but using the bathroom, getting water from the well, and taking care of the chickens.

I spend most of the month searching my memory for the knitting lessons Derek’s mom gave me a few years ago and then using them to knit a scarf for Cal. I found soft green yarn and knitting needles at a house this fall and kept them, stashing them away so Cal wouldn’t see. It takes me weeks and weeks to practice enough to do a decent job and then knit enough rows for a good-sized scarf. It’s not the best thing ever. Some of the rows look crooked. But it’s the best I can do, and I need a Christmas gift for him.

We’ve always done something to celebrate the big holidays, and I’m planning to do so this year even if Cal forgets about Christmas or doesn’t want to give me a present.

So I finish the scarf with two days to spare and wrap it up in red tissue paper I found at the same house as the yarn.

When Cal is out feeding the chickens on Christmas morning, I put his present on our table and light a big pumpkin spice candle I’ve been saving for today. I’ll make an extra nice breakfast and give him his present. If that’s all the celebrating he wants for today, then that’s fine.

When he returns, he’s covered with a dusting of snow, and he shakes it off like a wet dog. After he sheds his coat, gloves, and hat, I realize he’s carrying a wrapped chunk of pork from the boar he killed while hunting a couple of weeks ago.

It’s been so cold we ended up freezing the extra meat.

He sets it down on the small section of the kitchen counter. I glance over from the eggs I’ve been whipping. My lips part as I realize he’s brought in the best cut of pork. The small tenderloin.

“For Christmas,” he grunts, darting me a quick look that’s almost self-conscious. “If you want.”

“Yes. That’s great.” I feel the piece of meat. It’s frozen as hard as a rock, so I move it over closer to the woodstove so it can thaw. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t answer, so I look over at him again. He’s standing motionless, staring down at the wrapped present I laid on the table for him.

“It’s fine if you don’t have anything for me,” I tell him. “You’ve done more than enough for me. I just wanted…” I feel self-conscious too. And strangely poignant. I shrug because I can’t seem to finish the sentence.

He doesn’t move for another minute. Then he walks over to his bed and leans down to pull a wrapped package out from under it. The present is wrapped in plain brown paper, rather than the pretty tissue paper I used, but I honestly couldn’t care less.

I stare at him in pleased astonishment. “You got me something?”

He frowns, looking almost grumpy. “Course I did. It’s Christmas. What d’you take me for?”

I take him for a man who’s intentionally pulled away from me for months now, but I don’t say that. I don’t want to mess up what’s turning into a good morning. I just smile and go back to my eggs. “Breakfast is almost ready. I’m making eggs, ham, and those canned cinnamon apples we found. Then we can open presents.”

His mouth softens slightly into an almost smile. “Sounds good.”

His present for me is the prettiest fuzzy red coat I’ve ever seen in my life. I have no idea how he managed to find it, but I spend several minutes oohing and aahing over it, trying it on, and stroking the soft fabric.

He doesn’t say anything immediately when he opens the scarf. He stares down at it, very carefully unfolding it and lightly tracing his fingers over the yarn.

“It’s not that great,” I say, getting nervous that he’s not saying anything. “It’s the best I could do. But it’s…” Again, I can’t finish. I shrug instead.

His eyes move to my face. “You made this yourself?”

“Yeah. I’m not the best at knitting. But I tried.”

For just a moment, he looks astonished. Almost awed. Then he grunts. “Thanks.” He lifts the scarf and wraps it around his neck a couple of times. “Fits perfect.”

I giggle, realizing he does, in fact, appreciate it.

The rest of the day goes well too. We eat roasted pork loin with green beans, yams, and cranberry sauce (all canned). I sing a few Christmas carols as I clean up after dinner, and he lets me read out loud in the evening from the start of a new novel.

It’s the best day we’ve had since that afternoon when those men barged in and destroyed what was barely beginning between us.

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