She knew when the Walkers entered the tavern by the silence that fell. People turned to face the door.
Mr. Walker entered first; he was so tall and broad-shouldered, he had to duck to pass through the low door. Long blond hair fell across his face; he shoved it back. Looking up, he saw everyone staring at him, and he stopped, straightened. His gaze moved slowly around the room, from face to face; his smile faded. Grief aged him. The beautiful blond girl came up behind him, her face wet with tears. She had her arm around Matthew, was holding him like a Secret Service agent moving an unpopular Nixon through an angry mob. Matthew’s shoulders were rounded, his body hunched forward, his face downcast. Cal hovered behind them, his eyes glassy.
Mr. Walker saw Mama, moved toward her first.
“I’m so sorry, Tom,” Mama said, her face tilted up to him. Crying.
Mr. Walker looked down at her. “I should have been with them.”
“Oh, Tom…” She touched his arm.
“Thanks,” he said in a hoarse, lowered voice. He swallowed hard, seemed to stop himself from saying more. He looked at the friends gathered close. “I know church funerals aren’t our favorite, but it’s so damn cold out, and Geneva did love the idea of church.”
There was a murmur of agreement, a sense of restless motion contained, of relief mingled with grief.
“To Gen,” Large Marge said, lifting her shot glass.
“To Gen!”
As the adults clinked their glasses and downed their drinks and turned their attention to the bar for another round, Leni watched the Walker family move through the crowd, stopping to talk to everyone.
“Pretty high-falutin’ funeral,” Mad Earl said loudly. Drunkenly.
Leni glanced sideways to see if Tom Walker had heard, but Mr. Walker was talking to Large Marge and Natalie.
“What do you expect?” Dad said, downing another whiskey. His eyes had the glazed look of drunkenness. “I’m surprised the governor didn’t fly down to tell us how to feel. I hear he and Tom are fishing buddies. He loves to remind us peons of that.”
Mama moved closer. “Ernt. It’s the day of his wife’s funeral. Can’t we—”
“Don’t you say a word,” Dad hissed. “I saw the way you were hanging all over him—”
Thelma pushed in closer. “Oh, for God’s sake, Ernt. This is a sad day. Stow the jealousy for ten minutes.”
“You think I’m jealous of Tom?” Dad said. He glanced at Mama. “Should I be?”
Leni turned her back on them, watched Alyeska hustle Matthew through the mourners, over to a quiet corner in the back.
Leni followed, eased between people who stank of wood smoke and sweat and body odor. Bathing was a luxury in midwinter. No one did it often enough.
Matthew stood alone, staring blankly forward, with his back to the charred, black-peeling wall. Soot peppered his sleeves.
She was shocked by how changed he looked. He couldn’t have lost that much weight in such a short time, but his cheekbones were like ridges above his hollow cheeks. His lips were chapped and bloodied. A patch of skin was white at his temple, the color a sharp contrast to his windburned cheeks. His hair was dirty, and hung in limp, thin strands on either side of his face.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” he answered dully.
Now what?
Don’t say, I’m sorry. That’s what grown-ups say and it’s stupid. Of course you’re sorry. How does that help?
But what?
She edged forward cautiously, careful not to touch him, and sidled up beside him, leaning back against the burnt wall. From here, she could see everything—the lanterns hanging from burnt rafters, walls covered with dusty antique snowshoes and fishnets and cross-country skis, ashtrays overflowing, smoke blurring everything—and everyone.
Her parents were huddled with Mad Earl and Clyde and Thelma and the rest of the Harlan family. Even through the cigarette smoke haze, Leni could see how red her dad’s face was （a sign of too much whiskey）， how his eyes were narrowed in anger as he talked. Mama looked defeated beside him, afraid to move, afraid to add to the conversation or to look at anything except her husband.
“He blames me.”
Leni was so surprised to hear Matthew speak that it took her a moment to process what he’d said. Her gaze followed his to Mr. Walker.
“Your dad?” Leni turned to him. “He couldn’t. It’s not anyone’s fault. She just … I mean, the ice…”
Matthew started to cry. Tears streamed down his face as he stood there, stock-still, so tense he seemed to be vibrating. In his eyes, she glimpsed a bigger world. Being lonely, being afraid, a volatile, angry dad; these were bad things that gave you nightmares.