Chapter 5: The Split Palm

Melina said it to the floor.

"Casper."

Winston didn't move. He stood in the gap of the back door with the lake behind him and the light making him hard to read.

"How long?" he asked.

"Nine months."

"That's why the separate rooms."

"Yes."

"And the snoring."

"Yes." She was crying openly now. "Winston, I'm so..."

"Go and walk," he said. His voice was level and gentle, which was worse. "Not far. Go and walk, Melina."

She went past him with her face in her hands. The back door swung shut behind her.

Winston stood in the boathouse for a long moment. Then he turned and went out onto the dock.

I followed him.

He walked the length of it slowly, looking at every board.

At the end he stopped at the railing and put his hand on a post.

"Rotted through," he said, to nobody. "The whole thing should have been replaced two summers ago."

He took hold of the top rail with both hands and pulled.

It came off with a crack, and a long splinter of gray wood drove into his palm.

"Winston!"

He looked at his hand without surprise.

Blood ran down the heel of it and dripped on the planks.

"It's fine," he said.

"Sit down."

"I said it's..."

"Sit down, Mr. Ambrose."

He sat on the edge of the dock, and I knelt beside him and turned his hand over.

The splinter was the length of my finger. There was a first-aid kit in my coat pocket, because there always is, and I took out the tweezers.

"This will sting," I said.

"I'm aware."

I took his wrist in one hand and drew the splinter out with the other.