Santa Clawed

remember why.
    She was smart enough to know she’d suffered a concussion and grateful that she perceived no ill effect other than the thumping cut on her head. Her vision was fine. She had a dim memory of throwing up in a plastic bag in the ambulance, but her stomach now felt normal. She gave a silent prayer of thanks.
    Frying some leftover hamburger for the animals, she pulled out another cast-iron skillet, rubbed it with butter, and put it on a cold burner. She intended to make scrambled eggs. When she put down the mix of warm hamburger and dry food, the three animals went crazy with delight. Made her happy to see them so happy.
    Fair appreciated good coffee. She opened the freezer to grab a bag of ground beans. The others were whole-bean. She liked making coffee, even though she didn’t like drinking it. Once the coffee was put up, she plugged in the electric teapot and dropped a good old Lipton’s bag in a cup. She began mixing ingredients in a smallish Corning Ware bowl. Then she’d wake Fair.
    Harry looked around her kitchen as though seeing it for the first time. Free of unnecessary adornment, her home reflected her in so many ways. She noticed the pegs by the door, coats hanging, a long bench with a lid underneath, boots within. A sturdy farmer’s table sat in the center of the room, and there was random-width heart pine on the floor, worn thin in places of high traffic by close to two hundred years of feet and paws.
    A burst of love for her life, this kitchen, the farm, and, above all, her husband, friends, and animal friends, welled up. She didn’t know why she’d been hit. She felt lucky to be alive. She was determined to get to the bottom of it. She also decided to carry her .38. Thank God for the Second Amendment.
    The teapot whistled and Harry shook her head at herself. Here she was trying to be quiet, but she’d forgotten about the whistle.
    Fair, hearing the piercing note, awoke, feeling refreshed. Sleeping on the floor often made his back feel better. He smelled the coffee and rushed into the kitchen.
    Harry laughed when her naked husband rushed into the kitchen, the floor cold on his bare feet. “Honey, put your robe on before you turn blue.”
    He hugged her. “Are you all right?”
    “Actually, I am, but my head stings. It’s pretty tender.”
    He kissed her. “Thank God that’s all. I was afraid your skull had been cracked, but the X-rays and MRI proved what I have always known: you’re very hardheaded.”
    She kissed him back. “Big surprise. Now go put your clothes on before you catch your death. Not that I don’t like seeing you in your birthday suit. You’re an impressive specimen, you know.”
    “If you say so.” Fair had not one scrap of vanity, unusual for so well-built and handsome a man.
    He finally did go put on slippers. His had fox masks embroidered on the toes. The terry-cloth robe felt good against his skin. By the time he returned to the kitchen—his teeth brushed, his hands washed, hair combed—breakfast was on the table.
    Admiring the snowscape, they chatted. Fair avoided the obvious subject until he was on his second cup of coffee, she on her second cup of tea.
    “Honey, how did you wind up on the mountain?”
    The reason started to come back to her. “I came home from errands and Tucker and Mrs. Murphy were missing. When they finally came back, Tucker dropped a packet with ten thousand dollars on the floor. Put on my coat and hat and followed Tucker, who was dying to lead me somewhere. Well, on and on we went, and finally, at the walnut grove, Tucker and Mrs. Murphy led me to the low rock outcropping. Fair, there was at least a hundred thousand dollars in a green toolbox! I couldn’t believe it. That’s all I remember.”
    “Brother George hit her on the head with the butt of a pistol,”
Tucker informed them.
    “Don’t waste your breath,”
Pewter noted.
    Fair then told her his part of the story. Harry got out of her chair, hugged and kissed the two cats and the dog. She stayed on the floor for a while, Fair finally joining her to play with and praise the animals.
    “Cold down here,” Fair remarked.
    “You know, I’d like to finally build a fireplace in the kitchen. There’s an old covered-up flue where Grandma hooked up the wood-burning stove. Might still work.”
    “Might not work, but we’ll try. I’ve been thinking that if we turned the screened-in porch into an extension of the kitchen, a big step-down fireplace could be built at the