He said it to be funny, but then she had to visit the restroom, and he had to watch her phone. She’s been playing this game where you pop balloons, and now he’s standing here beside Lord Nelson. He’s got a finger on the sarcophagus. He’s probably nothing but a skeleton with clothes on. A weakling to look at by now, and his brother used to play hockey with a spindly boy. When he came over and stood in their kitchen, he was no more than a brushstroke in the air, but hockey gear can optimize anything. The question is whether you dare to body-check. Beneath the bleachers, it smelled of the damp and the dark and ice on concrete. Lord Nelson would’ve been better preserved there, yet here he is. Dead, and easily defeatable. In life he was impressive, and the sarcophagus is imposing. It’d be nice if she were standing next to him now. There was a time when they always visited churches together. Ten years ago, she would have been standing at his side. In her bag she’d have juice cartons, disinfected hankies, chapstick. There was a time when she never left home without fruit in her purse. He’s given her children, and they’ve never wanted for anything. The last thing he saw outside was her biting into an almond croissant, washing it down with scalding coffee, and reaching for her phone. Who can drink coffee in this heat? he wonders, closing his eyes for a moment. He sees the rink’s little surplus triangles. He watches his sneakers gliding across the ice. He leans up against the boards and here they come, the players, hammering into the plexiglass. They fight with sticks and shoulder pads. He can smell the ammonia,​ 97and he’s so small that no one can see him. Then he forms a gob of spit behind his teeth. He leans in to the boards, and then he spits. It’s a paltry gob and not exactly epic as it slides first down the plexiglass, then the marble. Nope, it’s not exactly epic.98

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THE FREEZER CHEST

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