Free Fires. Essays, Poems, Stories by Raymond Carver Page B

skirt. There," she said.
    "It was so-so," I answered. "There was a policeman here in the afternoon, with a warrant, believe it or not, looking for someone who used to live down the hall. And the apartment manager himself called to say the water would be shut off for a half-hour between three and three-thirty while they made repairs. In fact, come to think of it, it was just during the time the policeman was here that they had to shut off the water."
    "Is that so?' she said. She put her hands on her hips and stretched. Then she closed her eyes, yawned, and shook her long hair.
    "And I read a good portion of the Tolstoy book today," I said.
    "Marvelous." She began to eat cocktail nuts, tossing them one after the other with her right hand into her open mouth, while still holding the cigarette between the fingers of her left hand. From time to time she stopped eating long enough to wipe her lips with the back of her hand and draw on the cigarette. She'd slipped out of her underthings by now. She doubled her legs under her and settled into the sofa. "How is it?' she said.
    "He had some interesting ideas," I said. "He was quite a character." My fingers tingled and the blood was beginning to move faster. But I felt weak, too.
    "Come here my little muzhik," she said.
    "I want the truth," I said faintly, on my hands and knees now. The plush, springy softness of the carpet excited me. Slowly I crawled over to the sofa and rested my chin on one of the cushions. She ran her hand through my hair. She was still smiling. Grains of salt glimmered on her full lips. But as I watched, her eyes filled with a look of inexpressible sadness, though she continued smiling and stroking my hair.
    "Little Pasha," she said. "Come up here, dumpling. Did it really believe that nasty lady, that nasty lie? Here, put your head on mommy's breast. That's it. Now close your eyes. There. How could it believe such a thing? I'm disappointed in you. Really, you know me better than that. Lying is just a sport for some people."
    THE CABIN
    Mr. Harrold came out of the cafe to find it'd stopped snowing. The sky was clearing behind the hills on the other side of the river. He stopped beside the car for a minute and stretched, holding the car door open while he drew a big mouthful of cold air. He'd swear he could almost taste this air. He eased in behind the steering wheel and got back on the highway. It was only an hours drive to the lodge. He could get in a couple of hours of fishing this afternoon. Then there was tomorrow. All day tomorrow.
    At Parke Junction he took the bridge over the river and turned off onto the road that would take him to the lodge. Pine trees whose branches were heavy with snow stood on either side of the road. Clouds mantled the white hills so that it was hard to tell where the hills ended and the sky began. It reminded him of those Chinese landscapes they'd looked at that time in the museum in Portland. He liked them. He'd said as much to Frances, but she didn't say anything back. She'd spent a few minutes with him in that wing of the gallery and then moved on to the next exhibit
    It was going on noon when he reached the lodge. He saw the cabins up on the hill and then, as the road straightened out, the lodge itself. He slowed, bumped off the road onto the dirty, sand-covered parking lot, and stopped the car up close to the front door. He rolled down the window and rested for a minute, working his shoulders back and forth into the seat. He closed and then opened his eyes. A flickering neon sign said Castlerock and below that, on a neat, hand-painted sign, Deluxe Cabins—OFFICE. The last time he'd been here—Frances had been with him that time—they'd stayed for four days, and he'd landed five nice fish downriver. That had been three years ago. They used to come here often, two or three times a year. He opened the door and got out of the car slowly, feeling the stiffness in his back and neck. He walked
    heavily across the frozen snow and stuck