Envious Shadows

by R.P. Burnham

  Snowbound

  The storm forecasted for Wednesday night made its first surprise by starting early. By mid afternoon when three inches of the predicted two feet had already fallen, Kevin Blanchette suggested to Fiona that she had better leave early. She had been nervously watching the big flakes falling while the wind started driving them at a forty-five degree angle and was relieved. Quickly she told Anne Marie and another resident to read the brochure on personal hygiene, wrote a note for Sylvia about trading days if she could not get back to Portland tomorrow, and left. Already the traffic was crawling. It took her over an hour and a half just to get out of Portland and environs. Luckily Lowell’s old car had blown a head gasket in November and instead of repairing the engine he bought a four-wheel drive Swedish station wagon for safety and reliability on snow. She had no trouble negotiating the streets, but because other cars were spinning out or getting stuck, she was driving very slowly. Once out on the country roads, however, things got worse instead of better. The snow was coming down at an horrific rate, and the wind gusts were so strong they actually shook her heavy car at times. Visibility was so bad the road could not be seen, only the tracks of cars in front of her. By this time she had broken into a cold sweat and gripped the steering wheel as if her life depended on it, as it perhaps did. There were fewer cars in the country, but that was scarier. If she got to a point where there was not a car in front of her, she might easily go off the road. Cold sweat and white knuckles turned to terror. She was not an experienced driver even under the best conditions. She relaxed a little when she got behind a jeep and followed it for miles without any problems. The jeep turned off at a general store about two miles from the cottage, and with visibility worsening and the snow up to eight inches already, the terror returned. She proceeded in second gear at about ten miles an hour and hoped she didn’t have to stop. Even a four-wheel-drive vehicle could get stuck in heavy snow. She didn’t relax until she told herself that even if the car did get stuck she was close enough to home that she could walk to safety.

  But she didn’t have to. The station wagon performed just as Lowell had said it would when they bought it, and she was able to drive it right up to where the truck was parked. For a moment before she turned the ignition off she sat in the car and felt thankful. She wasn’t religious, but if she was this would be the time for a prayer of thanksgiving. She took several deep breaths instead before looking up and seeing Lowell beside the car.

  He had come out the door the moment he heard the car turning into the long driveway. He had obviously been waiting anxiously, though he tried to hide it. He knew she was on her way because he had called Phoenix Landing. It was he who announced the second surprise of the storm. Three and a half to four feet of snow were now forecasted. It would be the biggest storm in over twenty-five years.

  With the hour of daylight remaining, dim as it was, they made preparations for the storm. Lowell brought extra wood in from the woodpile. From the shed he had built in early November after the cottage was finished, he got their two shovels and brought them inside. He had already talked to the man who plowed their driveway—at over three-hundred-feet long, really an access road—and they had agreed it would probably be two days before he could get to them. They got candles, flashlights, a portable radio, extra batteries, and two oil lamps from the closet to have them handy. If they lost electricity, they’d lose water since the pump for their well was electric, but the hot-water tank was fired by propane gas and they could drain it for water to wash. To be on the safe side, however, they filled several plastic gallon jugs with water. Their kitchen stove was also fired by propane gas, but Lowell, trying to anticipate every emergency, also bought a Coleman camping stove with extra gas cylinders so that they could cook under the most extreme conditions. The wind reminded him that the one thing he had not anticipated was having plywood to cover a broken window, but even in this case he had partially anticipated a disaster. Their windows were high-tech glass that was very strong. A tree would have to score a direct hit to smash the big picture window. A branch should bounce off. Examining the geometry of the situation, they decided no large tree was close enough to do any damage to the picture window. They would be safe.

  They also had a large cache of emergency supplies to keep them going if snow-bound—canned soups, canned fruits, tuna and chicken; dried goods like rice, pasta and nuts; spaghetti sauces in jars; baked goods like cereal, cookies and crackers; tea and coffee; a couple of cases of bottled water and a large assortment of fruit drinks; beer and wine. In addition they always kept a week’s supply of perishables in the refrigerator, milk, fruit and vegetables; a bushel of apples was kept in the coolest place in the cottage, in the closet on the other side of the cottage from the woodstove. They also had powdered milk as a backup. In the freezer compartment they had three pounds of hamburger and two large chicken breasts, enough meat for five meals.

  They both had cellular phones so that even if the phone lines went down they could call for help in an emergency. They were prepared, and being prepared they were both excited. After Lowell got the wood put away and all the emergency gear was inventoried, they had a beer. They sat side by side on the couch facing the picture window and looked at each other with shining eyes. “Look at that snow come down,” he said, pointing at the window where whiteout conditions were in effect—the lake was invisible. “I think you’re going to get your wish. We’re going to be snowbound.”

  She smiled, feeling deliciously free and happy. She leaned over and kissed him passionately. “I’m so excited,” she said, “so happy.”

  The rest of the evening passed quietly. They cooked supper together, ate it together, and cleaned up together. They had another beer as they sat on the couch and talked about the storm. The tuner of their stereo system was set to Maine Public Radio for weather updates. The National Weather Service was still saying the storm would be the biggest northeaster in a quarter of a century. Cliff Dalton called to ask Lowell to check his vacation home when he got a chance to make sure there was no storm damage. They both called their mothers to make sure they were okay. Tara called to ask if they needed to be rescued by sled dogs. They watched TV for a few hours, then went to bed and made love. All this was fairly typical of their nights; the one thing that was anomalous was that they didn’t discuss Bill and Becky, nor were the phone calls on that subject. It had been their obsession for the past several weeks, but tonight the storm dominated their thoughts.

  She fell into a deep and contented sleep after they made love. At some point in the night she woke to utter darkness. The night-light beside the bathroom door and the LED displays on such things as their clock radio and microwave oven, which usually spread a dim light throughout the cottage, were out. She listened to Lowell’s quiet breathing and heard at the same time the howling wind outside their snug and well-insulated cottage. The woodstove had died down so that the air was very cold, but under the blankets was perfectly warm.

  She started thinking about the expression on Lowell’s face when she first got home after the traumatic drive from Portland. The anxiety he was feeling had not yet been completely effaced by the relief at seeing her safe. He had obviously worked himself up into a state of dread, which he partly admitted when he said, “I was really worried that the snow was too much and you would be trapped in the car,” but his face showed plainly that he was afraid something much worse had happened and he would have to face life alone without her. To be loved that strongly was wonderfully new to her. Sometimes she had to figuratively pinch herself to be reminded it was true.

  A year ago she had not known this man existed, and now he meant everything to her. She recognized the look on his face because it spoke the same love she felt for him. She too loved him more than life itself because without him life would be unbearable. Outside the wind howled angrily as if it was a monster that was frustrated it could not reach these lovers in their warm bed. She luxuriated in the warmth and security she felt. Waves of happiness pulsated through h
er body as she rolled over and matched her legs and belly to Lowell’s fetal position.

  Things had certainly turned out differently from the adolescent dreams of love she had envisioned. In high school she fantasized falling in love with a handsome black man who was a leader of his people like the men she learned about in civics class who led the civil rights movement. As the only black person in Waska, Maine, her daydreams had only the most tenuous connection to reality. Now that she had gone beyond fantasy and found love, she still felt black, but she saw blackness itself differently. Black was one way of being human, and being human was most important. She had enough self-confidence now to laugh at how she worried about losing her blackness and going to see Lucille Durham, the strongest black woman she knew, as she was falling in love with Lowell. She knew now it wasn’t so much for validation but from insecurity, from fear of losing her identity. Life with Lowell had taught her that she could be both black and white; she could resolve the schizophrenia that Du Bois had identified as the lot of the black person in America because Lowell had said that he loved her blackness because it was a part of her—said it and believed it. That was only one of the ways he made her feel special. He understood self-doubt and shyness and the feeling she did not belong, that she was different. In his life he had experienced the same estrangement and alienation; he knew all about self-doubt. Thanks to him she could sing the lines from Langston Hughes’s poem “I Too Am America” and feel at home. The confidence she felt when they went into the city she owed to him. He was such a good man too. He always wanted to do what was right. He had a lot of money, but he was completely indifferent to it. He was glad it enabled him to make a home in Maine, but he wanted to give back to society and to people more than anything. Now that the cottage was completed, he told her he wanted to help others enjoy the benefits of a home. In the spring he was going to volunteer his skills and knowledge about building and work for Habitat for Humanity. She was proud of him at the same time she worried that he might leave her for months on end. She had made him promise he would work in Maine. They had seen plenty of very poor people who lived in hidden byways upcountry. Portland also had its poor. If he worked locally she could join him on weekends; she could share his vision and they could be as one. Fantasizing about their working together on a house somewhere, she drifted into a semiconscious dreamlike state where she handed him tools and shared a drink of cold water on a hot summer day. Before it went any further she fell into a deep sleep.

  They woke to a clear day of arctic air from Canada replacing the storm. They heard that on the portable radio Lowell had had the foresight to bring upstairs to the loft last night. He too had awoken in the night to discover the electricity was off. They lay in bed for a while listening to the news tell them the temperature was below zero but expected to rise to the high teens by midday. The cottage was still quite dark even though the sun had already risen. They found out why when they got downstairs. The wind had blown snow almost to the top of the picture window. They marveled at that for a moment before turning their attention to surviving. Lowell got wood chips and logs and started the fire while Fiona boiled water on their gas stove for coffee. She had to take the plastic filter holder from their coffeemaker and slowly pour the hot water by hand, but she preferred that to Lowell’s suggestion that they use the camping method of boiling the coffee grounds and the water together.

  The radio also announced that the entire state of Maine was paralyzed with almost no roads cleared. She called Phoenix Landing to verify that Sylvia was doing all right and received the report that though they were shorthanded the guests were behaving marvelously. Through the other window fronting the lake and the top of the picture window they could see that the stupendous storm had left behind it the gift of a ravishingly lovely world. The portions of the frozen lake that the wind had swept clear of snow glistened in the low sun with veins of aqua blue. The branches of pine trees both on their lot and across the lake that had been out of the wind hung with pure white snow so heavy it made the trees look more like columns than cones. The sky was perfectly blue above the mountain (actually a glacial moraine, Lowell had told her, but everyone called it a mountain). The shadows on the mountain were blue where snow lay and purplish-green where the green boughs of pines were exposed. An aura of perfect peace and unspoiled perfection was everywhere. Everything she could see was more than usually distinct and individual, existing for itself and yet part of a perfect whole. No sounds of distant vehicles could be heard. Last summer while the roar of boats and jet skis thundered in their ears they had read a newspaper article that stated there was almost no place on earth—whether the poles or an out-of-the-way South Sea island—that went a day without hearing the roar of some engine, be it boat, plane or vehicle. And yet here in the early morning there wasn’t a sound to be heard. No vehicles were out, whether on the secondary road that led to their cottage or on the main road a few miles away that connected all the upcountry towns and villages, not even snowplows. She felt a thrill of pleasure that had to be shared. She turned and hugged Lowell, who had to put his full coffee cup down. “It’s so beautiful,” she said. “It makes me feel free.”

  He grinned. “Like playing hooky, isn’t it. But after breakfast we have work to do.”

  In fact something besides the woodstove had to be attended to before breakfast. Lowell was worried about the two water pipes where they came from the pressure tank and split off, one going to the hot-water heater and the other to the faucets and shower of the house plumbing. Unlike the flexible polyethylene plastic pipe that came from their water pump deep underground, these two pipes were copper, and after they split at the pressure tank were exposed to the air in the crawl space for about four feet. They could freeze. He had foam insulation covering them and had added additional protection by wrapping them with electrical pads that turned on when the temperature went below thirty-two degrees, but with the electricity off there was a definite danger of a frozen pipe bursting. He put on a work jacket and gloves and went down the trap door in the kitchen, bringing with him an old blanket to offer further insulation. Fiona, standing above the open trapdoor, could feel the frigid air through her slippered feet. She wondered how even with gloves he could work in such cold air.

  In about five minutes he came out of the trapdoor with some cobwebs in his dark hair, which she brushed off while teasing him by saying, “You’re showing some gray in your hair, I’m afraid.” They had breakfast of cereal and sliced banana with milk that was still cold. Fiona suggested they fill the camping cooler with snow to keep the milk and other perishables cold, and they discussed other things they needed to do as they ate their cereal. First up was a substitute for a shower. He got three gallons of hot water from the tank, and they washed each other in the shower, after which they were a mass of goose bumps as they dressed near the stove since its heat hadn’t permeated the cottage yet. Lowell said that he hoped the downed lines were major ones because they were fixed first. If it was their own line it might be a week before they had power restored. It made Lowell, who liked the idea of self-sufficiency, think that they ought to get a portable generator or look into solar panels. It was a moot point now, however, first because they could see through the window that their line looked okay, and secondly because they couldn’t do anything about the downed lines themselves. He estimated that depending on whether the downed lines were major or secondary, they would go two to four days without electricity. That meant the frozen food in the freezer compartment would be spoiled. Fiona, however, had a solution, which was to cook up the hamburger, chicken, and frozen vegetables. Cooked food could be refrigerated in the snow and would last much longer. The freezer compartment was still very cold, so it could be a problem deferred. For now she took one pound of hamburger out. Later they would make a batch of chili.

  The massive drift covering their deck like the glacier that thousands of years ago covered this land was more pressing. They bundled up and went out to do some shoveling. Both wore heavy sweaters und
er their coats and stocking caps pulled over their ears against the frigid temperature. Lowell, wearing a pair of high boots, went first into the waist-high snow. Fiona, with boots covering only her ankles, cleaned up the path after him. It was hard work that had the advantage of raising their body heat so that they forgot the cold. After shoveling a path to the woodpile and then backtracking and shoveling to the front of the cottage, they took a rest as they examined the huge drift. The outer posts of the deck were eight feet high, and yet the snow scaled the deck and went on a slope six feet further against the walls and window. While Lowell thought the posts and deck could hold the weight—especially since it was a solid mass below and above the wood—he was less sanguine about the snow they could see on the roof. He proposed shoveling the deck, then going up on the roof with the twelve-foot stepladder and pushing the snow off. Fiona did not like this idea at all. She was afraid he might slip and fall and be unable to go to the hospital for all the broken bones he would have.

  He scoffed at that, calling it the worst-case scenario. Then she asked, “Wasn’t the roof built strong enough to hold the snow?”

  “Probably,” he agreed, “but it’s a ton or more of snow and why take the chance?”

  They compromised by shoveling the deck, an operation that took almost two hours, and then, after a coffee break, shoveling a path to the shed from the front door, which was much easier since this area had been out of the wind. From the shed Lowell took the twelve-foot stepladder and a heavy rake (that was the compromise), and after putting the ladder against the roof from the deck, he raked the snow down as far as he could. In this way most of the snow was removed, though they had to reshovel the deck and throw the snow further and further distances to find a place for it to not fall back onto the deck. The work was made less onerous by Fiona teasing Lowell and calling him the snow creature from the Maine woods as they worked. He had come down from the ladder covered with snow and with his eyebrows encrusted with ice.

  When they finished they had a lunch of soup and crackers, then rested for a while before finishing with the shoveling. They made a path to the cars and swept them off. By this time their muscles were sore and their arms tingling, but before going back inside they surveyed the lake by sliding down the snowdrift from the deck. The only sign of human habitation was the smoke they could see from a half dozen cottages. Out of the hundreds that lined the large lake, only about thirty were used as year-round residences. Lowell had some cross-country skis belonging to him and Bill when they were boys and suggested that tomorrow they go exploring. “If my muscles have recovered,” was all Fiona said.

  Inside they cooked up the large batch of chili. When it had cooled they put it in two plastic containers and then into the camping cooler, which in turn they placed outside the front door. Lowell didn’t think there was much danger of an animal disturbing it, but just in case they placed two heavy rocks on the top. A brief nap followed and then they had a beer before cooking chicken breasts and a rice mix for their supper. For a salad Fiona made a Waldorf salad of apples, walnuts and raisins. After cleaning up they had another beer, the last of the day since generally they limited themselves to two a day. Almost always now it was microbrewery beer they drank. Lowell had passed from skeptic to fanatical fan of these beers and scoffed at the taste of watered-down American beers as if he’d been raised in Europe. They played a couple games of checkers by the light of an oil lamp while listening to classical music on the portable radio. This was a newly developed taste for both of them. They had even started buying classical pieces they heard on the radio and liked. The last time they were in Portland Lowell had bought Rachmaninov’s second piano concerto and Beethoven’s seventh symphony. When the radio played the waltzes from Richard Strauss’s Rosenkavalier, they spontaneously decided to dance to the music, turning the oil-lit cottage into a Viennese palace and their dungarees and sweaters into formal attire—or so Fiona imagined until she looked into Lowell’s eyes and realized the reality was better. She rested her head on his shoulder and said, “It would take years to explain how much I love you.” “I know,” he said softly, “let’s make sure it takes the rest of our lives.” Soon, too soon, the waltzes were over and so was the classical music. It was followed by a news program and inspired them to go to bed even though it was only 8:30.

  The next morning the electricity was still off, and this time Lowell made several efforts to phone Central Maine Power, only to get a busy signal every time. He did get through to the wife of the man who plowed their drive. She told him her husband would probably get to him by late afternoon or early evening. The main roads were cleared now, and he was starting with customers who lived on these cleared roads. Fiona called Phoenix Landing and talked to Sylvia. She had been there for thirty-six straight hours, having also substituted for Mark Lewis last night because he could also not get into the city. Fiona knew that meant she would have to do the weekend shift that included being on duty Saturday night. Momentarily it dampened her spirits until Lowell reminded her they still had today and tonight. The phone calls had lowered the battery level of his phone, so before breakfast he brought it up to the car and charged it from the charger that attached to the cigarette lighter. They ate breakfast and then cleaned up the paths they had shoveled yesterday. Last night’s wind was nowhere near the winds of the storm in velocity but still had blown enough snow to fill the paths in places. Once they were cleared and the phone put away, they got out the skis and inexpertly waxed them. Lowell’s first thought for a goal was his uncle Cliff’s place on the far end of the L-shaped lake, but with skiing requiring different muscles from those used for walking and running, they decided a shorter trip was more sensible. They would head for the near end of the lake where the main road was.

  The other side of the lake was swept free of snow, so they made their way parallel to their own shore. Because of the drifts it was often difficult skiing, rather like going across a hill perpendicular to its slope so that their legs were at uneven heights. Another problem was the depressions they would suddenly come across, little hollow valleys in the snow. If they were smaller than the length of their skis, they could cause a fall. Fiona, hardly ever being on skis before, fell more times than she could count. She was even finding it difficult on relatively smooth surfaces. Still the air was bracing, and even though they could hear snowplows in the distance, it was quieter than any normal day. Except for the occasional smoke from a chimney, they saw little evidence of human presence. With nobody else out and about, the lake was their private domain. In a day or two the ice fishermen would return and snowmobiles and iceboats would reclaim their spoliation rights. Occasionally they would see signs of the more permanent residents—squirrels and flocks of chickadees and woodpeckers—all of whom survived the worst of conditions and gave perspective to their snowbound condition. She saw Lowell regarding a band of chickadees and knew from the expression on his face he was thinking the same thing. For now silent communion was enough, for they talked very little. Only when they approached the north shore of the lake and could see an occasional car on Route 5 did they stop and confer.

  “Do you want to go up to the road or turn around?” Lowell asked.

  They had gone little more than a mile and already Fiona’s front leg muscles were tired, but if the chickadees could endure, so could she. “What do you think?”

  “Let’s turn back. Maybe at home we could ski up the access road and have a look around.”

  So they turned back, this time going a bit closer to the shore. They still were proceeding athwart the slope, but here they avoided the depressions. About a quarter of a mile from their cottage they were hailed by an elderly woman from her back door. She was about a hundred yards away so that they could not see her face clearly. They could see she was elderly by her white hair and a certain air of frailty she projected. “Excuse me, do you know anything about plumbing?”

  They had to ski closer and have her repeat her question before Lowell said, “Yes, some. What’s the problem?
”

  “We have frozen pipes and no water.”

  She was even older than they thought, easily in her eighties. She said her husband had had two hip operations and was infirm. She was trying to be casual, but both could hear the desperation and fear she was trying to hide. They exchanged a glance.

  “You must have town water up here. Where we are a well is needed. But, yes, it sounds like your pipe is indeed frozen. Often, even usually if there’s a turn of direction, they burst. If that’s the case, I can’t do much. But I’ll be glad to have a look for you.”

  The skied up to the stairs, removed the skis, and made their way carefully up the unshoveled stairs. Inside they saw an old gentleman sitting in an easy chair with a blanket covering his legs. The skin on his skeletal face was tightly drawn and transparent. Bluish veins and red capillaries were visible on his face and up into his bald head. His thin nose was similarly crisscrossed with visible blood vessels. He was unshaven and seemed distracted behind the thick black-rimmed glasses he wore. He looked at them momentarily through narrowed eyes that grew into a deeper frown. Unlike his wife, he did not seem to be happy to see them at all.

  It was cool in the house. Fiona could see Lowell’s eyes surveying the woodstove where only a few logs were stored beside it.

  “Do you have more wood outside, ma’am?”

  “Yes. I’ve brought some in, but they’re heavy and I don’t manage well. Usually we have a man who does these things. He comes once a day, but with the storm…”

  Her voice trailed off, and she struggled to compose herself.

  “I’ll get you some,” Lowell said in a kindly voice. “Just point me to the woodpile.”

  While she went to the front door and pointed to the side of the house, Fiona stood awkwardly near the man, who remained silent and did not look up.

  The woman returned, but while Lowell brought in several loads of wood she was as uncommunicative as her husband. She was very uncomfortable, but remained quiet herself. It would have been even more uncomfortable trying to make smalltalk.

  After the fourth load Lowell fed the fire and got it blazing.

  “You’re new here, I see.”

  Lowell closed the firebox and stood up. “Well, my family has owned a lot here for ages. Judge Edgecomb was my grandfather. Do you remember him?”

  “Oh, certainly. His cottage burned down some time ago. He lived in Waska, didn’t he? When we were young we used to see him. He used to take a walk every morning at seven o’clock when he was here on vacation. He would still wear a coat and tie, the only person up here who did.”

  “Was he friendly? I don’t know much about him—he died when I was a baby.”

  The woman looked at her husband, waiting for him to add a comment, but he was staring at the floor and apparently uninterested. “He was polite, as I recall, but I wouldn’t say friendly. Even then he was a judge, you see.”

  Lowell nodded. If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. “Do you have a flashlight? I’ll take a look at the pipe now.”

  She went over to a drawer in the kitchen to get the flashlight, a heavy, black old-fashioned one. “The trapdoor is under the rug.” She pointed.

  He smiled. “I should have guessed. It’s just about where ours is too.” He went down the ladder and disappeared.

  Fiona had moved into the kitchen while this was happening.

  “What’s your name, dear?”

  “Fiona. Fiona Sparrow.”

  “I’m Madge Henderson, and my husband is Donald. Your young man is very helpful.”

  Fiona smiled proudly. “Yes, that’s the way he is.”

  The topic of their discussion poked his head up out of the trapdoor. “Good news. The pipe hasn’t burst. I don’t imagine you have anything to heat a pipe with, do you?”

  “Would a candle be enough? It’s one thing we have a lot of.”

  He shook his head. “You can use a towel soaked with boiling water, but it would be better and quicker to use a soldering torch. I have one at home. We’re only eight or ten cottages up from here.” He clambered out of the trapdoor by putting his hands on the floor and pushing up, swinging his legs around, and then following that with a hip roll like a gymnast, he was on his feet.

  “Mrs. Henderson,” Fiona asked, “is there anything else we could get for you. We stocked up on supplies just in case we were ever snowbound, so we have plenty.”

  She looked nervously at her husband, then back at Fiona. “I don’t know. Do you think it will be long before we get electricity back?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Lowell said. “Maybe a few more days. How about your phone? Does it work?”

  She shook her head. “It went out the same time the electricity did. Aren’t they connected?”

  “Not necessarily. The lines are carried by the same poles, though. So indirectly they are. I’ll bring you our cellular phone when we get back. There are probably calls you’d like to make.”

  Mrs. Henderson’s face softened with relief. “That would be wonderful. My sister is probably worried sick about us.”

  As they left, Fiona added one other suggestion. “We can bring some water bottles too—in case Lowell can’t get the pipe fixed.”

  They returned with full backpacks. Lowell turned the faucet on in the kitchen and immediately went down into the crawl space with his soldering torch. In about five minutes the faucet spat some air and water with a loud hissing sound, and a few minutes later water was flowing. Fiona smiled proudly as she watched Mrs. Henderson’s amazement. When Lowell came back up he suggested she get her man to put insulation and electrical heating pads around the pipe. He had to explain what he meant, and then to make sure he wrote down the information. As a stopgap measure he said he had wrapped a couple old towels around the pipe and taped them in place.

  Fiona took out the water bottles and suggested Mrs. Henderson keep them just in case. She also brought half a dozen apples, which were reluctantly but thankfully accepted.

  Lowell offered one final suggestion. “Keep the faucet dripping a bit. Flowing water won’t freeze unless it’s extremely cold.” He reached into his pocket and handed her the cellular phone, and when she looked mystified he dialed it for her.

  She called the handyman first, who told her he would be able to get to her tomorrow. He had talked with some of the men who manned the plows, and they had told him secondary roads would be cleared by tomorrow morning if not earlier. This was news to Lowell and Fiona too. She knew now she would definitely be at work tomorrow and experienced again a feeling of regret.

  Lowell asked Mrs. Henderson why her handyman hadn’t got them prepared for the storm by bringing in extra wood and so forth.

  Mrs. Henderson, not understanding what Fiona saw—that indirectly Lowell was volunteering to take care of these old folks—defended the man. “”He said he was relying on early forecasts that said the storm would start late. By the time he found out it came early, he himself almost got stuck doing a small carpentry job. He feels awful, he told me.”

  Next she called her sister in South Portland, again with Lowell dialing the number for her.

  “Lilly, it’s Madge.”

  “No, we haven’t had power for two days.”

  “No, a neighbor brought his mobile phone. I’m calling on it.”

  “He’s been wonderfully helpful.” She looked at Lowell as she said this and smiled.

  “Not really,” She looked at her husband. “A little.”

  “Yes, well maybe.” She put her hand over the phone and said to her husband, “Lilly thinks we shouldn’t be here. It’s too much.”

  Mr. Henderson frowned and looked out the window at the lake. “Seventy-five years,” he said to himself softly.

  “Just a minute, Lilly. I’m talking to Don. What’s that, Don?”

  “Seventy-five years ago I first saw this lake as a boy. Lilly thinks we’re too old, doesn’t she?”

  “Well, maybe we are.”

  He turned his face away, but not befo
re Fiona saw the tears rolling down his cheek.

  When they got home it was those tears she wanted to talk about. “Lowell, don’t you agree that when we’ve been in public since last fall we haven’t had any problems—you know, of a racist kind, I mean.”

  Lowell, busy hovering over the stove waiting for the tea water to boil, turned and regarded her. “Yes, why do you ask?”

  “Only because when Mr. Henderson was sitting in his chair, saying nothing and looking angry and distraught, my first thought was it was because I was there. I thought he might be a racist.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Hmm, I didn’t think that.”

  “Then you were right. The poor man was feeling helpless, useless and thinking the nursing home was staring him in the face, and I stupidly assume it was because of me. It makes me feel ashamed. I didn’t see his pain. That’s what disturbs me.”

  The water was boiling now, and Lowell walked over to the cabinet to get cups and tea bags. “Well,” he said with his back to her, “I don’t think I can say I did either. What kind of tea do you want?”

  “Earl Grey.”

  He reached for the box and took out two tea bags. “Me too. We had a situation where those people needed our help, and my mind was in a problem-solving mode. It was only after the phone call to her sister that I understood. Those tears of the poor man—that’s when I saw he wished he didn’t need us. So maybe you did feel hostility but for the wrong reason.”

  As usual he made her feel better. She started to get the kettle, but before she did she gave him a hug. “Everything’s so perfect, I’m so happy, but then seeing Mr. Henderson reminds me I can’t be blind to the pain of others.”

  “You mean Bill.”

  “Yes, when I saw what was causing Mr. Henderson pain, I thought of your brother.” She turned and poured the water. Both of them bobbed the tea bag for a bit, then she put half a teaspoon of sugar into her cup. Lowell drank his without.

  “With him I see no easy solution. I can’t thaw a frozen pipe in his case. You hungry? We could have some cookies.”

  She wrapped the string around her tea bag and gave it a final squeeze. “No, I just want something hot in me.”

  They sat on the couch facing the lake. In the high sun the shadows of the depressions in the snow on the lake and distant mountain were bluish. The pines had all lost their burden of snow and gleamed green in the sun and purplish green in the shadows. A lone crow flew across the frozen lake, looking for food. The clear deep blue of the sky was empty of clouds and promised spectacular stars. Here away from the city lights they could see the Milky Way every cloudless night and sometimes the northern lights put on a show. This was the world of ancestral familiarity that existed apart and alone and which the city forgot existed. It gave peace but also a curious longing, the need to understand. Looking at those stars some nights she had tried to conceptualize infinity and eternity, but it was no use. One had to accept the longing and know that it was shrouded in mystery.

  Lowell broke the silence. “Do you think we should try to convince Becky one more time?”

  She sipped her tea. “The last time I talked to her she told me she wanted him back. She isn’t trying to punish him. It’s just that she feels betrayed and hurt and wants him to show her that she can trust him. Sometimes I think that only time will convince her.”

  “So you’re saying no?”

  “No, I think we have to try. It’s only that we have to realize they have to do the changing.”

  They lapsed into silence again, something that when it happened was never uncom-fortable. She started thinking about Christmas Eve when Bill came to them from Marilyn’s. He was strangely calm, even relieved that he and Marilyn were through, and his face showed that he wanted Lowell’s approval for what he had done. He seemed hopeful too, though this was harder to discern, a glint in the eye, a bounce to his step. But when he called Becky at Lowell’s urging and awkwardly explained the situation to her, his mood quickly changed. He listened to her for a long time, occasionally interjecting a “yes” or an “okay,” before hanging up. He told them he was going to spend Christmas Day with Becky and the boys, but otherwise grew uncommunica-tive and pensive. That phone call had been the beginning of their life as go-betweens.

  Lowell, putting his teacup on the table, brought her out of her reverie. She looked at him.

  “I still can’t understand Becky,” he said. “To me it’s obvious Bill did a terrible thing but that it will never be repeated. And the fact she still blames me for not telling her shows a rigidity of mind most unattractive. She’s holding a grudge if you ask me. She wants to punish him, not see that she can trust him.”

  The sarcastic way he said the word “trust” did not please Fiona, but she understood it came from frustration. Because Becky’s feelings of betrayal included Lowell, they found it best for her to deal with Becky while he dealt with his brother, who was now living with their mother. On weekend visits to their mothers, Fiona frequently made time to visit Becky. They had talked enough for Fiona to feel that she understood the feelings of a betrayed wife, and she listened with sympathy so that they had become friends. She had tried to explain to Becky the impossible situation into which Lowell was placed; she told her how Lowell had tried to talk Bill into doing the right thing; but the result was that while Becky forgave Lowell there was still a certain coolness between the brother- and sister-in-law. It was that coolness that was behind his sarcasm.

  “Don’t forget she was terribly hurt, devastated really. Suddenly and unexpectedly the foundations of her life were taken away from her. I know Bill told you that when they talked at Christmas and when he visits the kids she is icily cold to him and that he wishes she would yell and scream to get the pain out of her system. But I think I know why she is cold—it’s for self-protection, to keep her from bawling like a baby. She doesn’t trust him anymore, but she doesn’t trust herself either. She’s confused, conflicted, but I think she still loves him deeply. And remember what her mother said.”

  Lowell frowned. Becky had told her about her mother’s opinion of Bill just last Saturday, and when she told him about it he was very angry since it also applied to him to some extent. Before she and Bill were married they had dinner with her parents and Pat Edgecomb. Later her mother told Becky of her conclusions. She warned her that Bill had obviously had an irregular life, and because he was so handsome things had come to him too easily. He had never been tested. She wasn’t quite suggesting that Becky not marry him, but the disapproval she felt certainly implied it. Becky told Fiona that she had been angry with her mother for saying these things, and because they didn’t come true and their marriage was a happy one she had almost forgotten them until Bill did betray her. For the five years of their marriage she had always believed he was sweet, loving and considerate. Even after her neighbor told her about the rumors she had heard, she would not believe he was capable of betraying her. But he had betrayed her, and now whenever she felt herself yielding to the impulse to have him back, her mother’s frowning face would loom in her mind and make all her distrust and doubt smother the impulse to love and forgive. Fiona had tried to soften Bill’s sin by telling her that her cousin Marilyn was very manipulative and predatory. Nobody but her could have seduced Bill. Becky’s answer to that was to say that if he was the man she thought he was nobody could seduce him.

  Lowell, after brooding for a while, said, “That woman has been destructive.”

  “You mean Becky’s mother?”

  “Yes. Even Becky admits it’s her mother who stops her from reconciling with Bill.”

  “Well, I don’t disagree she is a factor, but we have to remember Bill did betray her. He has to accept some of the responsibility.”

  “I know that. But look what’s happened. He denies it, but he’s started drinking heavily. And him the son of an alcoholic. And why is he drinking?”

  He was starting to get agitated. His arms pounded the air. She didn’t dare reply; instead she waited for him
to go on.

  “I’ll tell you why. His guilt and shame have made him think all the feelings he had inherited from our life are true. He doesn’t think he is worthy of Becky. When we look at it that way, what he needs is support. Testing his worthiness is the most destructive thing she could do. Mother and daughter—their principles can go to the devil. It’s wrong, that’s all. My poor brother.”

  As often was the case, his worrying about Bill had got him into a state. He couldn’t see Becky’s viewpoint, not because he was callous but because his brother was in pain. It suddenly occurred to her that the same solidarity she felt for black people he felt for his brother. Class was another of life’s estrangements, another wall that separated people. But that led to another thought, one much more sanguine. For her and Lowell walls had tumbled down. There was nothing absolutely unbendable in the separation of the estranged man and wife. Now snow-bound no more and back in their normal world, she knew they would continue trying to give love, love that redeemed, its second chance.