Samuel finally managed:
“No.”
Clara stopped beside him.
The pantry doorway had been widened the previous autumn. Even so, Samuel stepped aside automatically.
She looked inside.
At first, nothing happened.
Her gaze moved across the flour, the beans, the crock of salt pork—
Then reached the cabbage.
The color left her face.
Samuel heard her inhale.
For once, Clara had no immediate answer.
No practical correction.
No dry observation.
No instruction about how foolish he was being.
She simply stared.
Samuel whispered:
“We only bought one.”
“I know.”
“You cut it.”
“I know.”
“I watched you.”
“I was there, Samuel.”
He turned toward her.
Clara did not look at him.
Her right hand had closed around the edge of the pantry frame.
Samuel followed her gaze.
The cabbage looked impossibly fresh.
Not merely preserved well.
Fresh.
The outer leaves curled tightly around themselves, crisp enough that their veins remained sharply defined. Tiny droplets of moisture clung to the surface.
Samuel stepped closer.
“Don’t touch it.”
Clara’s voice stopped him.
He looked over his shoulder.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“That has never stopped you before.”
She gave him a look.
Some things remained normal.
Good.
Samuel reached toward the vegetable.
Clara caught his wrist.
Her hand was warm.
Strong.
“Wait.”
“For what?”
“Think.”
“I am thinking.”
“No, you are reaching.”
“Those are different activities.”
He almost smiled.
Clara did not.
That worried him more than the cabbage.
She studied the shelf.
“Was this door open after supper?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I put the cornbread away.”
“When?”
“Five minutes ago.”
“And the cabbage was here then?”
“No.”
“You would’ve seen it?”
Samuel stared at her.
“It is larger than my head.”
“Your head isn’t especially large.”
“Clara.”
“Yes. You would have seen it.”
She looked down.
The pantry floor was bare plank.
No loose dirt.
No footprints.
No water.
No displaced flour.
Samuel leaned into the pantry.
“Window?”
“There is no window.”
“I know.”
“Then why ask?”
“I’m trying to invent one.”
He looked toward the back wall.
Rough timber.
Solid.
The shelves were fastened directly into it.
The pantry itself had once been a storage alcove when Samuel’s grandfather built the cabin. Samuel enclosed it years later with a door to keep mice out.
One entrance.
No window.
No cellar hatch.
Nothing.