Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

on their own,” he said, twisting the cap off the bottle. “Your mother and I have our disagreements. You never noticed that before?”
    “Seemed like more than a disagreement to me.”
    “You want a beer, Molly?”
    “Okay.” She accepted a bottle and popped the top. “Cheers.”
    “Bottoms up,” he said, taking a long drink. He scratched at the label on the bottle. “I love your mother, Molly. I love her with all my being. Thirty years together and I don’t feel any the less for her than I once did. I hope that someday you find someone to love as much.”
    An image of Graham flashed behind her eyes. They were on a kayaking trip in Desolation Sound. She’d left the campsite, stepped over the rocks and logs, and rounded the cove, seeking someplace private to go to the bathroom. When she’d returned, she stopped, and for a long time simply watched Graham’s profile outlined against the orange flames of their fire. He leaned forward and pushed a log with his stick, and then, sensing her presence, looked up with a smile.
    “But she drives me crazy,” Andy said. The image of Graham faded. “She can’t let go of the past. You’d think it was still the Seventies, that we all had long hair. Well, me anyway.” He rubbed his thinning scalp. “And bellbottoms and were protesting Vietnam, to hear her talk sometimes.”
    “Perhaps Mom just cares about things that haven’t changed. War, for example.”
    “Fine when we were twenty, young and innocent,” he said. “But we have a business to maintain, employees who depend on us, children, as old as they might be, to worry about.” Sylvester barked. “And dogs to keep in the style to which they have become accustomed.”
    “Where’s Mom anyway?” There was something most uncomfortable about learning the details of your parents’ marriage. Next he’d be telling her about the night she was conceived.
    “Another meeting of that goddamned committee. I just hope that rabid idiot from CNC doesn’t get wind of it. He’ll egg your mother on until she loses it, and then display her as a model of radical lunacy.” He looked at his watch. “It’s almost ten. Time for the program. I’d better watch it just to see if Lucky’s making a display of herself once again.”
    Smith had pulled a chair up to the scarred kitchen table. One scratch, among many, cut through the surface. As a teenager she’d smashed her plate, containing her entire dinner, into the table. The plate had shattered, food flown everywhere. Lucky had done the same. Sam had grabbed his own plate and fled for the comparative safety of the family room.
    She picked up one of Lucky’s political magazines and flicked through it. She heard Andy switch off the TV (there hadn’t been any swearing or throwing of things, so presumably the program hadn’t been too bad) and the light from the living room was extinguished.
    “Same rubbish,” he said, “A lot of people gathering in town to protest the garden. That young jackass, Harris, was on again. You wouldn’t know from watching that show that there are reasonably sane people in favor of the park. Your mother’s late, probably stayed to watch Ashcroft’s program. You’ll let Sylvester out before going to bed?”
    “Sure. Night, Dad.”
    She returned to the magazine.
    Lights flooded the kitchen as a car pulled into the driveway. She recognized the out-of-tune engine of her mother’s car, and Sylvester recognized his footsteps of his beloved.
    He was at the door, tail wagging, when Lucky came into the kitchen. Long strands of hair had come out of the clip, and lines of age and stress radiated from the corner of her mouth and the edges of her eyes. But those eyes shone with determination, and Molly Smith had known, without a word being said, that the battle was on. Once again.
    A bug zoomed in under her flailing hands like a fighter plane and hit the back of her neck. She swatted it and her finger came away with a streak of red blood. She called Sylvester to get out of the water and they ran for home.
    She was online, looking at cars and their prices, and scratching the back of her knee, when the phone rang.
    “Molly Smith.”
    “Hi, Molly. I’m glad I caught you. How are you doing?”
    That squeaky voice was unmistakable. Why would she be phoning here? “Meredith?”
    “It’s been a long time since we talked, about anything aside from our professions that is, so I wanted to give you a shout. Did you hear that Darla Wozenk is pregnant?