Acts of Malice by Perri O'Shaughnessy Page B

housework had always bored her. She could hear her mother’s voice even now, years after her death, saying, ‘‘Hustle, now, hustle.’’
    She bent down and started picking up Hitchcock’s sock shreds from the rug.
    ‘‘Hey!’’ A muffled shout, and a pounding at the door flooded her with relief. Matt had come to interrupt.
    ‘‘I’ll get it!’’ she called out to Bob.
    ‘‘Sis,’’ he said when she opened the door, stamping the snow off his feet. ‘‘You do have a shovel, don’t you?’’ He could barely see her over the snow-dusted logs he held in his arms.
    She looked past him, observing the narrow footpath in the snow, the ice on the steps.
    ‘‘Oops,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ve been meaning to shovel that. Bob and I come in the back door when the snow’s bad.’’
    ‘‘What about other people?’’ Matt said, coming inside with his load.
    ‘‘Other people? What’s he mean, other people?’’ Nina closed the door on that problem.
    ‘‘I’ll shovel it for you before I leave.’’
    ‘‘No, no, no, Matt. You’ve got your own walkways to shovel. Don’t worry. We’ll get to it.’’
    Bob poked his head out of the kitchen to say hi. He held a wooden spoon which dripped thick red liquid on the floor.
    ‘‘You’ll get to it—in spring, right, Bob?’’ Matt said.
    ‘‘I could do it this weekend,’’ Bob said, ‘‘for a small remuneration.’’
    ‘‘Nice talk,’’ Matt said, sounding reproving.
    ‘‘Yes, what kind of language are they teaching you at that school?’’ Nina said.
    Bob laughed. ‘‘It’s a word nobody but me can pronounce in this scene we’re doing from
Love’s Labour’s
Lost.
’’
    ‘‘How apropos to the moment at hand,’’ Matt said, walking over to the empty metal stand that sat on one side of the fireplace. With a loud thump, he dropped the wood, raising a cloud of dirt mixed with snow. ‘‘Labor being lost, I mean.’’
    ‘‘You’re in a scene?’’ Nina asked Bob, coughing and waving her hand. ‘‘Are parents supposed to come to see the play?’’ She hated that it came out like that, so put-upon sounding, but making time for his school activities, in principle her first priority, somehow often ended up lingering somewhere at the bottom of the list.
    Bob licked his spoon. ‘‘No, it’s just for the class. We’re going to critique each other. Will you listen tonight while I do my lines?’’
    ‘‘Sure,’’ she said. ‘‘After we eat your delicious dinner.’’
    He disappeared into the kitchen. ‘‘You let him cook?’’ Matt said, heading back toward the front door.
    ‘‘Whatever it is, say good things about it, Matt.’’ She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes were up. She had tried. Her heart had been in the right place. She had told herself to hustle. It wasn’t her fault Matt had arrived. She sat down, put her legs on the coffee table, crossed them, and took a sip of the wine she had poured earlier. ‘‘Whew. What a day,’’ she said. The wine tasted like summer, like Brazilian music, like Collier’s mouth. . . .
    Matt hovered meaningfully by the door.
    ‘‘Gee, Matt. Thanks for bringing the wood. Why don’t you have a seat. I’ll see if we’ve got any beer.’’
    ‘‘No,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ve got more work to do.’’
    She picked up the newspaper. He continued to hover.
    Slapping it down on the table she said, ‘‘Okay. Tell me where you are going and what needs doing that obviously involves me.’’
    ‘‘Out to the pickup to restock your woodpile.’’
    ‘‘I guess we do need some.’’ She rubbed her bare feet. She did not want to go out into the snow again, not even for the promise of many future warm fires.
    ‘‘Andrea told me that you guys are almost out of wood. It’s already winter, Nina. You need four cords per winter up here. This isn’t the city. You can’t just flip the thermostat to high and expect to get heat. Sometimes, the power goes out. In fact, it goes