“So you just wandered up to the farmhouse for no reason? After all the times I’ve warned you about what goes on up there?”
“Gentry came by,” I said. “He saw Mama when he was up there delivering a keg.”
“And what are you doing cavorting with the likes of Gentry?”
“He’s my friend,” I said. “He sells me my cigarettes at the store.”
“You’re sixteen years old, last I checked.”
“You gave me Marlboro Reds when I was twelve!”
“That was to keep you from stealing them.”
“What’s the difference?”
“It don’t even matter,” Portis said, and waved his hand. “Just stay the hell away from that Gentry. He’s a thirty-year-old man and I can guarantee he’s the type that only does a favor cause he’s expecting a payback in return. And you know what kind of payback I mean.”
“He’s twenty-three,” I said. “And gay.”
“Gay nothing,” Portis said. “Gay ain’t always what it looks like on the surface.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said. “You really are a lunatic.”
“And just think,” he said. “I’m the one you came to for help.”
In the firelight, even with his beard in full bloom, I could see the white flecks of scar tissue that covered Portis’s face like paint splatters. I could see the left eyelid and where it had grown together at the edge of the socket and left him in a forever squint. He had survived his own run on Shelton’s dope, but stuck to drinking now. I suppose it was a slower, more reasonably portioned suffering.
He took another gulp of whiskey and I laid out the facts before he could set in on me again. I told him Mama had gone missing and that her Bonneville was parked out front of Shelton’s but that she was not inside. I’d come in the back door and found the baby upstairs while Shelton and the mother were passed out in the living room. I described the bassinet by the open window and how the snow was slanting in. I told him Shelton and the woman hadn’t moved an inch and that I was absolutely certain nobody had seen me.
“You’re sure about that?” he said.
“Positive,” I said. “Nobody saw anything.”
Portis turned to the window and frowned at Wolfdog’s barking.
“Just a minute,” he said, and finally set his whiskey down.
He opened the door and I felt the wind thread through the floorboards as he stepped outside to squat beside Wolfdog. He stroked her neck, hugged her close, then whispered something in her ear and she bounded off and was gone.
Portis knew she was too wound up. Wolfdog would lunge on sight if Shelton Potter showed and that man would not hesitate for a second to put her down. I thought of the dead dog in the farmhouse and felt a shiver slide all the way up my spine.
“I’m sorry,” I said, when Portis came back inside. “I saw her there and didn’t know what else to do. I just grabbed her.”
“Well,” he said. “You done something, I guess.”
“She seems okay,” I said. “Considering.”
“She’s better off than she was,” he said. “Trapped in that farmhouse with Shelton Potter.”
“Will you hold her?” I asked. “Just for a minute?”
“I’m not holding any baby,” Portis said.
“My arms are going to fall off, Portis. I can’t just set her down on the floor.”
“I’m not skilled in the area of infant care,” he said. “I lack tenderness.”
“Please.”
“Babies don’t like me.”
“Everybody likes you.”
Portis gulped from his bottle, then wiped the corners of his mouth with his shirtsleeve. He glanced at Jenna and then looked away.
“You better take them clothes off and set them by the woodstove,” he said. “I got a blanket you can cover up with. Got some clean woman clothes around here, belonged to a former acquaintance of mine.”
“You think he’ll come looking?” I said. “Shelton?”
“He’ll come looking,” he said.
I handed Jenna to Portis and she howled on cue.
“Goddamnit,” he said. “I told you.”
“You’re doing fine,” I said. “Just hold her.”
“She’s small as anything.”
“I think she’s about six months,” I said.
“She’s wet.”
“We’re going to change her and get her fed. I got some formula in the bag if you’ve got any bottled water. Then we’ve got to get her someplace safe and warm. I thought you could drive us to the hospital.”
“I got water,” he said. “But no truck.”
“What happened to your truck?”
“Nothing,” he said. “It’s up the hill.”
“How far?” I said.
“Far enough.”
“What’s it doing up the hill?”
“Sitting, I expect.”
“Why is it that the truck is up there and you’re down here?”
“There are reasons,” he said.
By “reasons” Portis meant he’d driven up the hill to check his traps, gotten too drunk, and wandered around the woods until he forgot what he was doing and came back to the cabin.
“Where’s your pickup?” he said.