Page 81 of Soft Flannel Hank

But she knew he didn’t. Maybe because nobody had ever shown him how. Maybe because he’d never allowed himself to feel deeply enough to require them. But as Esther watched him force the tension in his body through the head of the axe and into the wood, she could almost imagine his unexamined feelings flying into the cold air in the same shower as the wood splinters.

Unlike the last time, however, Esther had things to do. The cabin was cold, the wood stove in the corner sitting unlit. And so with one last look at him, at the man whose presence she felt in her body on a cellular level, she got to work.

* * *

Hank wasn’tsure how long he’d been out there, but by the time he felt calm, the sun was setting, he was drenched in sweat, and he had a pile of wood stacked against the cabin that would last a month. He felt the exhaustion weighing down his body, pulling at the bones and muscles and connections between the two. The lack of sleep and physical exertion made him feel shaky and weak, but his mind was clear, which was a blessing.

He put the axe back in the little shed behind the cabin and bent to untie his boots just outside the front door before walking into the cabin and taking them off. The cabin consisted of two rooms. The main room had a kitchen and living area, with a small dining table and a wood stove. The furniture was sparse but comfortable, with a plush couch and armchair next to a braided rope rug. There was a small hallway that had two doors, one to a bathroom with a shower stall and the other to a small, windowless bedroom, which held a full-sized bed, a chest of drawers, and a vault door that rivaled most banks.

The main room was warm. Esther had lit the wood stove and turned on all the lights. As the door closed behind him, Esther jumped and turned. She smiled when she saw him.

“Smells good,” he said.

The smell of coffee and cinnamon apples was so very familiar, his memories stitched tightly together with the aroma. Coming home from school or from running in the woods with Buck and Jamie to find his mother in the kitchen, an apron tied around her waist and apple crumble in a baking dish on the counter. She would hug him, tease him about how much cold he’d brought in with him, and then serve him a bowl. Then she would pour herself a cup of coffee and sit across the table from him while he ate, asking him about what he’d done and seen.

Hank remembered shoveling large mouthfuls of apple crisp into his mouth, sheepishly apologizing when his mom handed him a paper napkin and reminded him to not talk with his mouth full. But she’d always smiled when she’d said it.

He’d never talked to anyone the way he’d talked to his mom. Around everyone else in the world, he’d always felt like his words moved slower than they needed to, certainly slower than everyone else’s. He’d never felt interesting enough to hold people’s attention, so he never said much.

But Hank’s mother had always drawn the words out of him. At least she had until Marnie left and took Anna with her. Then, he hadn’t had many words for anyone.

“I found some brown sugar and oatmeal, and Niamh put butter and apples in the fridge. I thought, ‘Why not make apple crumble?’”

Hank remembered taking care of his mom when she was sick and then when she was dying. How she would ask him questions and he would give her short answers, not because he didn’t want to talk to her but because he felt like all of his scant words had been taken away from him along with his heart.

But he would make apple crumble. It was gentle on his mom’s stomach when the chemo guaranteed that nothing else was. He sat by her bed while she ate tiny, careful bites of the spiced apples, handing her a paper napkin to dab at her mouth when she missed. He hadn’t been able to talk to her, not like he had before, but he’d read to her for hours, a cup of coffee at his elbow on her nightstand and a bowl of apple crumble in her lap. He’d read romance novels and Jane Austen and a memoir by a Vietnam War veteran that had made them both cry.

“You brought the cold in with you,” Esther said with a smile.

Hank felt his throat grow thick now as he stood in the warm cabin, holding his boots in his hand. He nodded, dropping his boots to the floor. Esther cocked her head at him, and he could see the dozens of questions rolling around in her mind. But she didn’t ask them. She just dished up a bowl full of crumble and set it down on the table.

“Dinner’s not ready, but we’re adults so we can have dessert first.”

Hank stumbled toward her, toward the table and the little blue bowl. Esther stirred something in a pot on the stove, and Hank sank into a chair, feeling the wood settle under him, creaking softly under his weight.

His hand trembled as he lifted the spoon to his mouth, as he slid his tongue against the underside. The soft, baked apples filled his mouth with warmth.

“My mom used to make me apple crumble,” he said softly, suddenly wanting to talk.

He wished desperately that his mom was standing next to Esther in that kitchen, that they’d peeled the apples together, that she’d winked at him when he’d come inside because she liked Estherso damn much.

Hank didn’t know if it was the magic of the apple crumble or his memories or Esther and her goddamn brilliant light. But he wanted to talk. Heneededto talk.

“Will you sit with me?” he asked, hearing the thickness in his voice.

Esther wiped her hands on a towel and covered the pot with a lid. “Sure,” she said, a small smile crinkling around her eyes.

“I need… to talk to you,” he said, wishing that Esther had just put the whole baking dish of crumble in front of him instead of a serving so that he could have his mouth full of comfort, full of that decent memory of his mother holding him, while he told her the story of how his life had shattered apart in slow motion. How he had watched it happen in dismay but been powerless to stop it.

“Hang on,” Esther said, reaching across the table and grabbing his bowl. He flinched to control the urge to snatch it back, wanting to hold onto it, to the memories, to the feeling that maybe, just maybe he still carried some of his mom with him.

But then she went to the stove and picked up the spoon, dished more apple crumble into his bowl until it was full. Steam rose in curling in tendrils as she brought it back.

“You deserve more,” Esther said, setting it down in front of him.

He looked down at the bowl, at the browned apples with tiny slivers of green peel that she’d missed, glazed with sugar and speckled with cinnamon and oats. He closed his eyes against the threatening tears, willing them away. He was going to talk around the apple crumble, to feel the cinnamon and sweetness mingle with the bitter story. Maybe telling it would take away the sting that had plagued him for almost two decades.

“Can I tell you a story?” he asked.