Yet she would hear nothing of it.
“I’ve mourned enough in one lifetime for two women,” she said. “I’ll have no more of it.”
Her only distraction was to keep herself busy. She collected a bin from the cellar and made her way to the bathroom, where she grabbed George’s brush, his pomade, and all of his other possessions there, and stored them away. His scent was omnipresent, that sweaty musk she neither loved nor hated, a smell that was simply George, as familiar as the man himself. She was certain that once his body was removed and the house was scrubbed of him, she might have a moment to think of things other than the sound of his footsteps coming down the stairs, his oddly peaceful snoring, his delightful grin on returning from the woods. Perhaps she might even stop thinking of her son, who would have no news of his father’s passing, lost as he was somewhere in the world with no way for his mother to reach him.
Silas appeared at the bathroom door to ask what she was doing.
She gestured to the towels on the rack beside the washtub.
“Grab those, please,” she said. “Whenever I see them I can only picture George wrapped up in one, coming into the bedroom after a bath. Still wet. Always getting water on the floor. That won’t do. I’ll get new ones.”
“Izzy, please. You aren’t yourself.”
He hadn’t called her Izzy since she was a child. Surely her actions weren’t that immature? When Silas didn’t move to pick up the towels, she collected them herself and threw them into the bin. “If you won’t get the towels,” she said, “then you can begin with the pots and pans in the kitchen. His grip is worn into every handle. All I can see is him leaning over the skillet to smell his cooking. I can’t have it. I’ll get some new kitchenware in town tomorrow, too.”
As she made to leave the room, Silas put his arms around her and held her tight, her cheek against his chest, and she dropped the bin to the ground.
“Isabelle,” he whispered into her ear. “Give yourself a day. For God’s sakes. Putting away his pan will not help things.”
Without uttering another word, he walked her to the couch. They sat together in silence. There was nothing more to do about the house and the weight of the day finally caught up to her. After some time he told her he wished to roll a cigarette and wondered if she would be okay without him for a moment.
“I’d like to go outside myself,” she said.
“Don’t let me stop you.”
So that was where she spent the rest of her day, and when night came, she watched the stars with a blanket in her lap. Surely there would be another sign of her husband, clustered in the constellations. But it was a nighttime sky like any other. Silas refused to sleep himself but kept his distance, staying inside but making a routine of coming out to ask if she was ready for bed. The final time he opened the door he was yawning himself, and she told him to leave her be.
“I suppose you won’t be moved,” he said.
“You cannot worry after me like this,” she said. “I’m fine. I just wish to wait out the night.”
“Wait it out for what?”
“For morning.”
“And then?” he said.
“And then I will bury my husband. Let’s not have it come too quick.”
Silas remained in the doorway. It was plain he didn’t understand his intrusion, and she wished he would grasp that there was nothing he could do but grant her this window of time where she could draw significance from the immensity of the countryside, and live one last night in a world that did not know or care that her husband was gone from her.
“Go to sleep,” she said.
She didn’t bother to see him off, but when she finally turned, a while later, the candles inside had been put out and the cabin was dark.
CHAPTER 26
It was Caleb who insisted they remain in the woods, claiming Hackstedde and Webler might still be after them—a fear that occupied Prentiss as well. They’d stopped a week into their flight, upon reaching a town he’d not heard of, and Caleb would go there for food, return to their campsite bearing bread and cans of meat, and after eating they would sleep surrounded by silence, awaiting daylight. Each evening Caleb would perk up, buzzing with an energy he’d stored away somewhere, and announce that another day had passed, his voice thick with pride, as though they’d accomplished something noble. Eight days on, he’d say. The following night it was nine. And each would lead to the next, all of them blending into one, until a few weeks had gone by and Prentiss had had more than enough nights in the woods to last a good long while, if not forever.