Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

the table. “Enjoy your dinner, have dessert, call a cab, you’ve had as much to drink as I have. Take your time, and know that I love you.” He pulled out his credit card. “I’ll tell them to cover anything.”
    She laughed. “I wouldn’t trust that card to pay for a pack of gum. Now get going. I haven’t finished my meal yet. Call me when you get a chance.”
    He bent over and kissed her.
    Another promising night ruined. “Sorry,” he said.
    Eliza Winters watched the man she’d been happily married to for twenty-five years walk out of the restaurant. How much longer, she wondered, would he be able to keep at his line of work? Retirement was getting closer, even as he tried to ignore the passing of time. They’d moved to Trafalgar because he was burning out, fast, in Vancouver. Crushed by the despair of life in the Downtown Eastside. Consumed by guilt at what he saw as failure. Drinking far, far too much. The move had been good for him; the old John was coming back to her. She hoped tonight’s call wouldn’t amount to anything too serious.
    Eliza twisted the necklace around her fingers, letting it catch fire from the candlelight on the table. She signaled to the waiter to bring the bill and dug into her bag for her credit card.
    ***
    Christa Thompson let all of her frustrations out on the phone table.
    “Damn, blast, and hellfire,” she yelled. “Leave me alone.” The table jumped.
    He’d called her again. As always, sweet and kind and considerate. Is there anything I can get you, Chrissie? I’m heading to Nelson. I’ll stop at Wal-Mart if you want. Can I pick up anything? Let me help you, let me care for you, let me watch over you, let me, let me….
    Why wouldn’t he leave her alone?
    She buried the phone under a pile of sheets in the linen closet. She knew the routine. He’d call every fifteen minutes, “just checking that you’re okay.” After an hour or two, he’d suggest coming over with a pizza, or picking up a DVD. She’d tried to be nice, to be friendly. To explain that she’d eaten dinner, thank you. That she was tired and ready for bed. Always being polite, always saying thank you.
    But tonight she’d told him straight out not to bother her again, and buried the phone where she wouldn’t have to listen to it ring. Would he get the message at last?
    She carried a cup of tea into the living room-dining room-study of her apartment and sat down at the computer table. Her essay on the Romantic Poets (20% of the final mark!) was due next week and she’d barely started it. She looked out the window. The lights of town twinkled in the valley and crawled up the lower slopes, getting thinner and thinner until the mountains were nothing but dark shapes against the deep purple sky. Koola glacier was wrapped in darkness.
    She sipped at the tea and reviewed her notes. She’d always loved Wordsworth the best. Could his name, perfect for a poet, have contributed to his art? That might be an idea to pursue if she decided to go for her master’s in English Lit. She was reading
An Evening’s Walk, Addressed to a Young Lady,
settling into the mood and the love of the words, when the loud knocking at the front door yanked her back to her cramped apartment. She occupied the top floor of a house so decrepit it was a wonder that one board still supported another, and her downstairs neighbors could be nasty if she made the slightest noise.
    Abandoning Wordsworth, Christa ran down the narrow staircase. She threw open the door.
    Charlie stood there. He was well over six feet tall, thickly muscled from hours spent at the gym, with a head as round and bald as a bowling ball. His running shoes filled the mat at her door.
    “Gosh, Chrissie, your phone isn’t working. It rings and rings but you don’t pick up. Suppose you had to call 911 or something. I came over right away.”
    “Please, please. Leave me alone, Charlie. Just. Go. Away.” She slammed the door shut. She leaned her back against it and wept as his fists pounded on the thin wood. “Chrissie. Let me help. I can fix your phone.”
    “You don’t shut your friend the hell up, I’m reporting this to Mr. Czarnecki,” the downstairs neighbor screamed through the wall that separated their living room from Chrissie’s staircase. “He’ll have you out of here on your skinny ass if I have anything to say about it. My kids are tryin’ to get to fuckin’ sleep.” A dull thud as a shoe hit the wall.
    “Chrissie? I can’t get the door