FIFTY-FOUR

MOLLY’S FIRST THOUGHT UPON WAKING WAS ABOUT HER tooth. It was still there, hanging tentatively to a few strands of tissue. Her second thought was of Nick.

“He’s not here.”

“Why not? Where’d he go?”

“He went back to town. Here. Put your socks on.”

“Why’d he go back to town?”

“He didn’t say.”

“But Mommy, he said we could make banana pancakes. He promised.”

“I know. Something came up. Here, pull this over the turtle-neck. It’s cold out.”

“Can we make pancakes, Mommy?”

“Maybe later. Not now. Now we’re going outside. Put your arm in.”

“But Nick said—”

“Mollybear, put your arm in the sleeve? Good.” “He said we could—”

“For now, let’s fix just a snack, okay? We’ll see about pancakes later.”

Finally, she was dressed. I made cinnamon toast and filled a thermos with hot cocoa for the road. I’d never walked in snow-shoes, had no idea if Molly would be able to. Maybe Nick had a sled. A sled would be much better, easier to negotiate.

I looked out the kitchen window, squinting at the shed, searching, hoping to see a sled. Snow was falling in large, heavy flakes. The woodpile was already buried, a tiny lump on a blanket-covered mountain. I couldn’t see a sled, but there might be one out there. If there was no sled, we’d put on the snow-shoes and be on our way. I zipped Molly into her jacket and gazed outside, assessing the depth of the snow—and dimly, through the blizzard, I saw a bulky shape hunkering at the door of the shed. Forget the damned snowshoes, I thought. We had a better way to get home.

It was sitting right there by the shed, a big yellow plow hooked up to its front end. I could drive a stick shift, could probably manage a pickup truck.

I pulled on my jacket. Good. I had a new plan. First, we’d gather our bags and pack up our toast and cocoa. Then, we’d go out back, climb into that baby, start the engine, and roar the fuck out of there.