The Winter People

“My name’s Ruthie. Ruthie Washburne.”

 

 

Candace stared at Ruthie a moment; then it was as if she suddenly woke up, her whole body coming to life. “Of course!” she said, smiling as if being reunited with a long-lost friend. “Of course you are. And I bet I know just why you’ve come.”

 

“Why I’ve come?” Ruthie said.

 

“Why don’t you tell me, dear? In your own words.”

 

Confused, Ruthie fumbled onward. “My parents, they were, um, they must have been friends of Thomas and Bridget. I found some old stuff of theirs with my parents’ things, and I thought …”

 

“Come inside,” the woman said. “Please.”

 

Ruthie stepped in, and the woman shut the door behind her. It was warm inside and smelled slightly musty.

 

She led Ruthie through the entryway and into a large, open living room with a leather sofa and two matching chairs. The Christmas tree in the corner, which went nearly up to the ceiling, was covered with glorious blue and silver ornaments. Ruthie had never seen such a beautiful Christmas tree. They’d always cut their own trees from the woods: scraggly evergreens decorated with a hodgepodge of homemade ornaments, strings of popcorn, and paper chains.

 

Candace O’Rourke took a seat on the huge leather couch and gestured for Ruthie to join her. Ruthie felt like she’d stepped into the middle of a glossy catalogue or house magazine: everything in this room was perfect. A kid lived here—the world’s luckiest and neatest kid. Fawn would flip if she could see all the toys: an old-fashioned rocking horse, a wooden kitchen set complete with real metal pots and pans, even a large wooden puppet theater set up in the corner. Everything seemed sleek and clean and organized. Unreal.

 

“Would you like a drink?” Candace asked. “Or something to eat?”

 

“No, thank you.”

 

“I’ve got cookies.”

 

“No, thanks.”

 

Candace stood up. “I’ll just go get us some cookies. Maybe some tea. Do you want tea?”

 

“No, really, I’m good. I don’t need anything.”

 

“I’ll be right back, then.”

 

Ruthie sat perched on the edge of the couch, listening to Candace’s footsteps echo off down the hallway. She waited a minute, then stood up to look around. She went first to the Christmas tree and discovered, on closer inspection, that it was not so perfect after all. It had shed a lot of its needles, and was dry as a bone. Many of the ornaments were broken and had been put back together with tape and rubber bands. And the tree itself, Ruthie noticed now, was off kilter, leaning heavily to the left. The star that had been at the top was stuck in a branch below, like a bird fallen from its nest.

 

Seeing the tree up close gave Ruthie an uneasy feeling. Then she looked down at the toy kitchen and saw that there, in a tiny pot on the stove, was a real orange, shriveled and covered with mold.

 

She went over to the puppet theater and looked behind it to see a tangled pile of broken puppets: a king missing his crown, a headless frog, and a naked princess whose face had been colored with blue Magic Marker and who had a pencil jammed into her stomach like a yellow spear.

 

Ruthie turned and left the living room, heading back down the hall, away from the front door and toward where she guessed the kitchen must be. She heard the sound of cabinet doors being opened and closed. All along the walls of the hallway were picture hooks, but no pictures.

 

At last, she reached the kitchen, where Candace stood in front of a large gas range. The countertops were granite, the cabinets some dark wood polished to a shine. But something was wrong. There was nothing on the counters—no loaf of bread or bowl of fruit, no coffeemaker or toaster. The cabinets that Candace had left open were nearly empty—some crackers, a can of tuna, a box of Crystal Light.

 

“I know there are cookies here somewhere. Fig Newtons. They’re Luke’s favorite.”

 

“Luke?”

 

“My son,” she said, running a hand through her messy hair.

 

Ruthie thought of the puppet with the pencil through its belly and wasn’t sure she wanted to meet the kid who was responsible.

 

“He’s with his father,” Candace said, still playing with her hair, wrapping a strand around her index finger and giving it a tug. “We’re divorced, you see, and Randall has full custody now. He’s … Well, never mind about that. Let’s sit down, shall we?”

 

They sat at the large wooden table. It was covered with a film of dust.

 

“You said your parents were friends with Tom and Bridget?”

 

“Yeah.” Ruthie fiddled with the clasp on her bag, reached in to touch the wallets. “So you know them, right?” Ruthie’s heart started to beat faster. “Maybe you can help me? I know it’s crazy, but my mom, she kind of … vanished.”

 

“Vanished?” Candace bobbed forward.

 

Ruthie nodded vigorously. “Yeah. And while we were looking through her stuff to try to figure it out, we found these.” She pulled out the wallets, handed them over.