CHAPTER 2
George’s love of cooking was just one of his many eccentricities. Isabelle had tried early in the marriage to take the role of house cook, but her husband’s opinions on the preparation of a ham hock were no different from his thoughts on the hunting of a mushroom, the building of a tree swing: refined, specific, and executed with concision time and time again. Sitting at the table for breakfast, she would watch his routines with a mix of fascination and delight. These were habits he had perfected over time as a bachelor—the cracking of an egg was a one-handed affair, a smooth motion of the thumb, a rather feminine swoop that broke the shell in two; the buttering of a hot pan involved a quarter-inch slab, greased in semicircular motions until it hissed across the surface and disappeared.
He was more satisfied during the cooking than the eating, the latter of which seemed merely a slog to get through. They spoke few words at the table. Yet this morning was different. He’d somehow risen before her, an accomplishment in and of itself, considering how late he’d been out. And when she came downstairs, she found him at the table, staring at a spot on the wall, like the splintered wood might get up and carry on with its day.
“How about some breakfast?” she asked.
His face was expressionless. He’d never been handsome, for the balancing involved in the physiognomy of beauty had escaped him. His nose was large, his eyes small, and his hair fell in a ring like a well-placed laurel wreath; his belly had the taut rotundity of a pregnant woman and was always safely stowed away in the midsection between his suspenders.
“I could go for some hotcakes,” she said.
He finally made notice of her.
“If it’s not a bother, sure.”
Standing in front of the stove, preparing the batter, she felt she’d forgotten the procedure altogether. She created it from memory, not from her own cooking, of course, but from watching her husband over almost a quarter century now. The cabin was modest—two stories—and stairs cut across the center of the home. From the kitchen, she could make out George sitting in the dining room, but whenever he shifted he disappeared behind the stairwell, only to reappear again.
“Perhaps a bigger stack than usual?” she called over. “You must have built up quite an appetite last night.”
This would be her only attempt to draw forth an explanation. It wasn’t that he did not tolerate questioning （he was rather indifferent）， but that greater investigation rarely led to greater discovery. She had learned to save her words.
“Did you find it?” she asked in conclusion. “The creature. I imagine you were after it again.”
“It escaped me,” he said. “Very unfortunate.”
The cakes sizzled—bubbles opening and closing again like a fish struggling for air above the water’s surface. George would turn them now. For the sake of experiment, she let them be.
She brought two plates to the table, returned moments later with two cups of coffee. There was a rhythm to their eating. One would take a bite, and then the other, and it was in these slight recognitions—no different from the way they exchanged deep breaths while falling asleep—that the brushstrokes of their marriage coalesced day after day, night after night, the resulting portrait rewarding but infuriatingly difficult to interpret.
When George had returned home the night before, his face was so flush, his shivering so severe, she did not know whether to wash him down with a rag or slip him under the covers. Under the pain of his hip, he wavered with every step, agonizing his way up the stairs and refusing assistance. He could barely get a sentence out, let alone an explanation for his absence, and he fell asleep so quickly she wondered if he’d already been in a dream state, his body leading him back to where he’d belonged the entire night. She realized that other than the mention of passing interest in tracking a beast of some mystery—the same one he’d sought with his father years ago, an adventure they’d shared in, the same beast she’d never seen with her own two eyes—the man was intent on keeping the secrets of his nights to himself. Which would have been more irritating had she not had a secret of her own.
Not that she wished to. She could scarcely recall keeping anything from George, and the burden of her silence was a weight so heavy it sometimes felt difficult to breathe.
“How was the social?” George asked, his eyes never leaving his plate.
“As tedious as they’ve all been of late. Katrina left after tea and I joined her. They talk only of who’s returned, or rumors of who might return, and I simply can’t bear it. They treat their boys being paroled with the self-satisfaction of a victory in hearts. Which was why I stopped playing that game completely. Their winning is fine and all, but it’s the possibility that I might lose…”