A Fine and Bitter Snow

“Poor John,” Ruthe said again. “He really loved Dina.” She turned her eyes from the window to where the two of them sat side by side, eating. “How’s the chicken?”

“Sure you won’t try a piece?” Kate said.

“Certain sure,” Ruthe said. “Besides, I’m afraid to get in the middle of you two. Might tear my hand off.”

Jim, drumstick raised, laughed. Kate, mouth full of thigh, didn’t.

Ruthe had woken from her coma two days after Kate had been brought in. Much to the trooper’s frustration, she still couldn’t remember anything from the day of her attack, even though the doctors had said that was to be expected. “Short-term memory is what goes first after a violent attack,” they’d said, and Jim snapped, snarled, and growled, but in the end, because he’d had experience with a head injury and a subsequent short-term memory loss himself the summer before, he subsided into a frustrated silence. “Don’t harass her,” they had warned him. “She doesn’t need to do anything right now but get well. Don’t mess with that.”

So this was strictly a social call, except that Ruthe wanted to know everything that had happened since she’d been away, including why Kate was one door down.

She was paler when they finished. Kate told her about the potlatch, and the picture, the original of which she had had Jim bring to the hospital.

Ruthe wept at the sight of it. “I remember that day,” she said, mopping her eyes with the Kleenex Kate moved within reach. “Mudhole was starting air tours from Cordova to the mine. That was the inaugural flight. He loaded up everyone he could think of and gave us the VIP treatment-had champagne and caviar waiting for us when we got there. We all got a little tight.”

“Emaa had champagne?” Kate said, awed.

“We all did.” Ruthe’s smile faded. “That was the day it started, I think. Dina sat next to John. They hit it off. I think it was more chemistry than it was anything else, but it was strong and it was immediate, and a month later, they were married.”

Kate didn’t look at her, not wanting to exacerbate Ruthe’s pain. “That must have hurt.”

“What? Why?”

Kate looked up. “Well, I-” She cast about wildly for some way to say it without sticking the knife in. “Dina left you. You know, for John.”

“Oh,” Ruthe said, starting to smile, then began to laugh. “Oh. Right. I forgot.” She started to cough.

“Are you okay?” Jim said, standing up in alarm, box in one hand, french fry in the other. “Should we call somebody?”

She waved them off with a weak hand. “I’m all right. I can’t laugh yet, either.”

“What’s so fu

Ruthe mopped her eyes and smiled at Kate. “Dina didn’t leave me. Not in the way you mean.”

“What?” Kate said. “I’m sorry, I don’t-”

“Dina and I were never a couple.”

Kate gaped at her. After a moment, she recovered and said, “But you-I thought-we all thought that-”

“We knew what you all thought,” Ruthe said, gri

“Okay,” Kate said, “too much information.”

“I’m kidding!” Ruthe said, and started to laugh again. “God, if you could see the expression on your face!”

Kate could feel her neck going red, and she could hear Jim starting to laugh, too. “Did Emaa know?”

“Of course she knew; she used to chase around with us. That girl could party us all right into the ground.”

“Stop,” Kate said desperately, “please, I’m begging you, stop right there.”

“She was a looker when she was old,” Jim said, “I bet she could knock your eyes out when she was younger.”

“Do. Not. Go. There,” Kate said.

Jim met Ruthe’s eyes for a pregnant moment. Sometimes it was just too easy.

“What about their daughter?” Kate said. It was the only way she could get out of the hole she was in, and then Jim gave her a dagger look and she remembered they weren’t supposed to try to jog Ruthe’s memory. But Ruthe gave a last chuckle, coughed into a Kleenex, and said, “What daughter?”

There was a brief silence. “Christie Turner,” Kate said.

Ruthe’s brow puckered. “Christie Turner? Oh, you mean Bernie’s new barmaid. What about her?”

“She’s John and Dina’s daughter, Ruthe.”

Ruthe stared at Kate. “I beg your pardon?”

“Christie Turner is John and Dina’s daughter.”

Another silence. “Are you sure?” Ruthe said at last.

“We’ve seen the birth certificate. She was born in Seattle, ten months to the day after the date on the marriage certificate. Father, John Letourneau. Mother, Dina Willner.”

“Oh,” Ruthe said. She closed her eyes against sudden remembered pain. “Oh,” she said again, a drawn-out expression of realization. “So that was it.”

“What was it?”

“About two months after their marriage broke up, Dina came up with this idea to do a marketing tour of the camp Outside. I figured she wanted to get away for a while, so I helped her set it up. Eco-tourism was just starting to catch on, and I thought it was a good idea to put us out in front on it. I offered to go with her, but she wanted to go alone. She left after we shut down the camp for the winter. Right around the first of October, I think it was.” She was silent for a moment. “She wrote after three months, saying she was going to a WASP reunion in Texas. After that, she was going to visit her mother, then friends. And after that, one of her teachers. After a while, I stopped expecting her home. And then, there she was, walking in the door.”

“She never told you?”

“No.” Ruthe closed her eyes and shook her head. “Oh, Dina. She didn’t have to do it all alone. She should have known I would have stood by her. Helped. She could have brought the baby home. We could have raised her.”

Would it have made any difference? Kate wondered, remembering the pride and triumph in Christie’s crazy eyes just before she pulled the trigger. “She put the baby up for adoption,” Kate said.

“And that baby was Christie Turner?”

“Yes.”

“I want to see her.”

Kate looked at Jim. “That’s not possible, Ruthe.”

So then, of course, they had to fill in all the discreet blanks they had left out.

“Her childhood was like something out of Dickens,” Jim said somberly. “There’s a cop who owes me at SPD; he managed to pull her juvie file.” He shook his head. “There’s always someone who slips through the cracks, and twenty-five years ago that someone was Christie Turner. The couple who adopted her also took in foster children. There were never fewer than a dozen kids in the house. Apparently, the father took his pick of the girls. Christie was a beautiful child-the cop sent a picture-and she was her father’s special girl from the time she was four.”

Kate instantly felt the sick rage she always felt when confronted with child abuse. She wanted to rescue the child, even if that child was Christie Turner. She wanted to geld the abuser. She wanted to make it stop, all of it, just stop.

Jim saw the look on her face, and he turned to Ruthe. “Can you handle this? Most of it’s pretty hard to take. We don’t have to talk about it now.”

“Yes, we do,” Ruthe said. “When it’s cold, you have to dive in; you can’t stand around shilly-shallying on the shore. And this kind of story never gets any better in the telling anyway.”