Shadows collected in a scarred whorl below her left hip where she’d taken two AK-47 rounds during Desert Storm. She’d kept the skull and crossbones tattoo on her left shoulder. Maybe it helped win over the grunts when she walked into a tent wearing an sleeveless T-shirt. She wore her copper hair in a practical wash and wear shag; but it was long enough to curl over her ears to conceal the scarred lump where Bevode Fret had sliced off her left earlobe, nearly two years ago.
Nina’s rib cage rose and fell. Kit’s soft breath bussed his neck. Mommy was a fast ship pointed in harm’s way; their marriage was a voyage in uncharted waters. More than once Broker had awakened of a dark night and rehearsed standing at a graveside, next to his young daughter. Practiced reaching out to accept the precisely folded flag.
He faced it straight on. Why she chose him. Amen.
He put Kit to bed.
She and Kit woke in the late afternoon. Nina yawned, moving in one slow languid stretch. Famished, she flung open cupboards, loaded pots, pans, fired all the burners, the oven and filled the table with plates of turkey and trimmings.
After they ate, Broker wanted to try out the sled, but Kit let Nina carry her on her shoulder. Soon they were swept away in a conspiracy of baby talk-girl talk. Nina put a Pooh video in the VCR, and constructed an elaborate nest in front of the TV: couch cushions, pillows and blankets.
Broker watched them crawl into this lair, curl up and watch the cartoon. Nina coached: “Now, see that one, Tigger. See the way she moves-”
“Nina,” protested Broker. “Tigger is a guy.”
“Not anymore,” said Nina, snuggling Kit into her arms.
Long after the sun went down, when Kit had fallen asleep in Nina’s arms and had been lowered into her bed and tucked in, they turned their backs on the living room, a toy town sacked by a marauding horde of Santa’s elves.
And finally, they wound up in the same bed.
When they’d met, she’d been between hitches, a graduate student in Ann Arbor. Broker had never shared a bed with a jet-lagged woman wearing dog tags. She wore the two steel ID wafers taped together with black electrician’s tape. So they wouldn’t jingle. Like he’d worn his.
Until 1993, all the dog tag blanks for the military had been made at the Duluth Federal Prison Camp. He didn’t know where they made them now.
The tags and chain twined, cool steel between the skin of his chest and a cushion of smooth muscle where her ribs met. He was very aware of the tiny notch incised into each tag. The notch was a guide for Graves Registration, to help insert the disc between a corpse’s teeth. A swift kick from an army boot drove it into the cold gums, good and tight…
Not exactly an aphrodisiac.
But then, they were not a sensual couple. What they were good at was removing each other’s armor, layer by layer, without being awkward or giving offense.
They made love like they did everything: directly, unself-consciously, and far better than most people.
34
The day after Christmas.
Broker could feel morning light press on his eyelids and smell the fresh brewed coffee. But he kept his eyes shut, squirmed deeper to sniff the covers. Happy armpits.
The aroma of coffee came nearer and he opened his eyes.
Nina, hair pleasantly disheveled, lost in the folds of her old voluminous, burgundy terry cloth robe, sat on the edge of the bed. Holding a cup out to him.
“Actually, you’re not half bad for an old fart,” she yawned.
Broker put the coffee on the night table and swatted at her hard ass, hiding somewhere in the baggy garment. She laughed, danced out of reach and wagged her finger.
He grumbled, “Don’t pick on us old farts who tend the home fires while you’re out there being glamorous.”
“Glamorous. You sleep in this warm bed. Sometimes I sleep in the snow.”
Broker stuck his tongue out, wiggled his wolf eyebrows and mugged a satyr’s grin. “Show me where it hurts and I’ll kiss it.”
“Gawd.”
“Ha,” said Broker. “I made the major blush.”
Nina quickly changed the subject. “I told you to stay in the Stillwater house. Hire a nanny. I told you you’d go crazy up here alone with a baby. Especially after your mom and dad went off to Arizona. But no-you were going to give Kit the Old North Woods Launch.” She mimicked his deep voice and pointed her finger toward the ceiling: “Orion. The wind in the trees. The sound of the lake. Frostbite. Wolves…”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Kit stumped in through the doorway, butt naked.
“That’s an accident waiting to happen,” said Broker with authority.
“Bo Bra,” Kit pronounced proudly.
“What’s that?” Broker asked.
“All-purpose Yugoslavian; means good,” explained Nina.
“Great,” said Broker.
“Correct, Do bra. Now get dressed, and let’s try out that sled.”
They were returning to normal. But their unspoken pact continued, not to let the world intrude on them until tomorrow. They dressed, went outside and loafed. A rested, idle, unplanned day. They pulled Kit along the shore and through the snow-laden trees. Broker rolled his first snowman in thirty years, positioned it on a granite outcropping, complete with a carrot nose and a blaze orange hunting cap.
The young skiers in the cabin on the point came snowshoeing down the shore, picking their way among the ledge rock.
Seeing the snowman, they stopped to introduce themselves.
David something and Denise something, from Chicago.
On their honeymoon; fleeing the law firm where they worked.
Crisp wind suits. Fancy cross-country skiing gloves and caps; slim physiques straight from Outside Magazine. They explained that their office represented the doctor who owned the cabin, so they’d arranged for an extended getaway.
David produced a Polaroid camera from his knapsack and offered to record the snowman. Denise had a serious Nikon on a strap around her neck. David was in every way polite, but Broker disliked his carefully tended narcissism, his artfully askew blond hair, the way he watched Nina, to see if she was watching him. Broker and Nina shrugged, positioned Kit between and posed.
The young Chicagoan snapped pictures and handed them to Broker, who held them in front of Kit, to see if she reacted to the images swimming up from the chemical emulsion.
David asked if they could have a few for themselves. Sure.
This time Denise did the shooting because David was out of film. She moved in close and snapped rapid-fire, moving in a half circle. She continued shooting, taking in the shore and the house, the cabin where they were staying. Then they said good-bye, Merry Christmas, and they slogged off on their snowshoes.
“Yuppies,” said Broker.
“That term is ten years old,” said Nina, putting the snapshots into her pocket. For a few beats, she tracked them carefully as they trudged away down the boulder-strewn beach.
When they came in for lunch, Nina inspected all the frozen baby food in the freezer and read the list of ingredients on every package. Broker split some of the dry oak he’d been saving and built the first fire in the tall fieldstone fireplace.
They made hot chocolate. Got out Hershey bars, graham crackers, marshmallows, and toasted smores in the flames.
Broker dragged the mattress off the master bed, positioned it in front of the fire, and they curled up and fell asleep in a pile like newborn puppies.
Nina, wearing only her dog tags and drops of water, vigorously rubbed her hair with a towel as she stepped from the bathroom. One hand still working the towel, she crossed the living room to the kitchen and stooped, retrieved the spoon Kit had just hurled from her high chair, went to the sink and washed it off with antibacterial soap. Tag team. Broker went into the steamy bathroom, twirled the shower nozzle and took a long shower, shave and shampoo.