10
GIVEN THESE RECENT events, by the time Christmas came Henry was relieved that a return trip north to Highgate Meadows would take him far from the city and, better yet, allow him to spend time alone with Abby. She’d been doing quite a bit of freelancing at some sort of textile arts website and had been unable to meet Henry at all following his most recent humiliations, although Henry did his best to pretend that nothing bad had happened to him. He was, however, not very good at this.
“What’s with all the moaning?” Abby asked on the phone one evening. “You’ll see me soon enough. We’re spending Christmas together.”
“I suppose,” Henry replied. “And I’m not moaning. I guess I’m just looking for something to do.”
“Well, find a hobby,” Abby said. “I’m making great money and getting a billion hours and things with my band are going really well, so I’m not seeing anyone till I split for upstate.” (Abby’s family lived in Saratoga Springs.)
It did occur to Henry that perhaps Abby herself had seen the email that Karen had sent out, although Abby’s address didn’t appear on any of the forwarded emails—he had checked three times. And, given the fact that Abby had always been skeptical of the Suckerhead crowd, if she did get the email, she might have dismissed the whole thing entirely.
So it was all a puzzle, but by the time Henry loaded his bags into the back of his Volvo early on Christmas Eve, his mind had relaxed somewhat. He’d spend time in the country doing things like inspecting picked-over squash fields, walking along old stone walls, and feeding the prized heirloom goats, who wouldn’t care one bit how Henry looked in bed.
The plan for the trip involved Henry staying at Highgate Meadows alone on Christmas Eve. The caretaker would be gone by noon, as would the other employees, and Abby would not be up until the afternoon of Christmas Day. She had a few small duties to take care of, but Henry was encouraged to “have fun and make yourself at home!” as Hannah was kind enough to say in an email she sent just before departing for St. Croix. Abby gave Henry more specific instructions—which room he was staying in, where he could find towels, etc. “There are things I’ve got to do when I get there,” Abby also said. “But it’s all minor. Everything is on autopilot, basically, so there’s nothing really to think about. We’ll just be there to make sure no catastrophes occur.” Abby also gave Henry various other bits of information—assorted things involving Henry’s comfort, including where the woodshed was and where the liquor was kept.
The promise of liquor was, in fact, on Henry’s mind as he drove north. He had somehow arrived at a vision of himself in front of the fireplace with some kind of brandy as the final symbol of him relaxing and putting Williamsburg behind him, if only for a day or so. He even had a fairly methodical plan for how to build a fire and pour himself a drink in as little time as possible—he would wait to unpack his car, wait to use the bathroom, and wait to make himself something to eat before the fire was built and the brandy was poured.
And there was another thing that was making him long for the warmth of a fire and a drink. On the trip north, it started to snow. Heavily. It was really quite beautiful. Henry’s Volvo had a number of so-called cross-country upgrades, and was very well equipped to handle difficult weather, so he wasn’t worried about road conditions, and he even allowed himself to enjoy the scenery and think (with some irrational optimism) about the various possibilities that might unfold on a snow-covered Vermont farm alone with Abby. The snow certainly was heavy, and as he drove up through Massachusetts and then approached the Vermont border, it occurred to him that this was one of the heaviest snowfalls he had ever seen. He turned on the radio to get the weather report (he had been listening to music thus far) and his suspicions were confirmed as several newscasters discussed what they were predicting would be—and maybe this was a bit surprising—the worst storm to hit the region in thirty years. Henry had heard that snow was coming when he was still in Brooklyn. Or, he had read about it online. But there’d been none of the drama and seriousness that he was now hearing in the voices on the radio. And by the time he pulled onto the road where Highgate Meadows lay, he was hearing specific reports of record temperature drops and the possibility of as much as forty-two inches of snow—it was supposed to last all the way through Christmas and into the following day.
Henry could, of course, see for himself what was being discussed by the weather forecasters. The festive and Christmassy snow had turned into a freezing blizzard, and Henry had trouble even making out the silhouettes of the buildings as he passed up the drive. But he had arrived. So there was really little for him to worry about at this point. At least he wouldn’t freeze to death on the side of the road, and that, after all, was something to be thankful for.
11
AND SO, ONCE he arrived, Henry executed his well-made plans, although he did have to make one small adjustment and use the bathroom before he built the fire. Within fifteen minutes of his arrival, however, he was sipping a glass of some kind of expensive-looking Armagnac and watching a large oak log catch fire atop a pile of pine kindling.
It was very peaceful and took him far away from his life in Williamsburg, and after a few moments of taking it all in—the leather-bound books, the antique sideboard, the soft yellow couch with two quilts draped along the back—Henry wondered again, as he had the last time he’d been to Highgate Meadows, if this wasn’t, in fact, exactly the life for him. And the corollary thought—this was new, however—was that maybe what he really needed was a woman like Hannah, although, of course, a much younger version of her. Maybe he needed someone who enjoyed the country more, someone who liked sitting by the fire, arranging quilts in appealing ways, and cooking elaborate meals. Unfortunately, at the same time he also had the uncomfortable realization that Hannah reminded him a bit of his mother. His mother was sweeter, if that was a thing a person could really be, and quite a bit less ambitious than Hannah. But his mother was an emotionally astute woman and an excellent storyteller, having somehow memorized the entirety of the details of every maternal relative Henry had ever met, or known to exist. It was, in truth, nearly the only thing his mother liked to talk about, although the stories were never repetitive or dull, and they always left Henry with a very strong urge to write something about it all himself.
It was when he was in his last year of college (the semester before he started his so-called internship at the magazine) that she died, along with his father, in the boating accident near their house on Martha’s Vineyard. Again, it had been entirely unexpected, as boating accidents always are, and so shocking that Henry was sure he still hadn’t recovered. In fact, what he generally felt at the times when he thought about it all was that he hadn’t yet even really experienced the event in its full form and was instead moving helplessly away from that first horrible phone call in a state of increasing confusion. It was odd, never quite feeling that you had really grasped the depths of a terrible event, to say nothing of having recovered from it. And the fact was that Henry had been very close to his parents, as different as they were from him.
Henry had grown up in Lexington, Massachusetts, in an enormous house on nine acres of land, with an old barn, a pond, and a reasonable commute for his father into Boston. His father managed a sort of investment fund, which consisted partly of the family’s money and partly of money from other investors—generally other wealthy families that didn’t have someone as smart as Henry’s father to manage their estates.
Henry’s father had had a more formal job once, before taking the reins of the fund he ran. He was an equities analyst for a large brokerage in Boston. He bowed out without too much trouble, though, following a disagreeable change in management. But Henry’s father was never possessed with the kind of financial mania that most successful money runners are, and he slipped easily into his new and calmer life without too much trouble. He was an excellent sailor and he loved to play tennis and to hunt, and the truth was that he was devoted to his family. In fact, Henry came home at least fi
ve or six weekends a semester when he was at Deerfield (a fairly unusual thing among his peers) and his father always loved to spend time with him.
It was the case, though (and this had been completely clear to Henry for all his life), that Henry and his father were very different people. Even when he was in grade school he could tell that he was frailer and more sensitive (in the bad way) than his father, and these first suspicions bore themselves out as he grew older, and as he grew even more sensitive and into even less of an athlete. But the thing was, and this was something Henry understood deeply and with great emotional precision, his father loved him with a heroic sense of gratitude and acceptance. Never once—really, not once—did his father ever make a single disparaging remark about things like Henry’s irrational fear of water, his lack of physical stamina, his crippling shyness around girls, or anything else that marked him as functioning far on the other side of his father’s robust and masculine vigor.
“You and I are different guys,” his father once said, just after they discussed Henry’s decision to abandon his tenuous alternate’s position on Deerfield’s junior varsity cross-country team. “We’re different. But Henry, you’re the best man I know. You really are. I couldn’t be happier that you’re my son. I learn something from you every day. And you know why? Because you’re the most emotionally generous person I’ve ever met. I don’t think I’ve ever heard one mean or petty thing come out of your mouth. Ever. Not even when you were little. And that’s pretty unusual. About as unusual a thing as I’ve ever seen.”
This conclusion had always puzzled Henry. Certainly he had held thoughts and opinions that were far from generous and very well might land squarely under the heading of petty. But it was true that Henry had few enemies and had never really mistreated a friend.
One thing was clear, however—clear at least on the couch at Highgate Meadows that Christmas Eve: Henry’s father had loved him. And Henry knew it. And while there are, of course, any number of perfectly obvious reasons why losing your father is entirely devastating, in Henry’s case the most important loss had to do with the fact that he felt as though he would never find anyone who thought as well of him, who liked him quite as much, who really seemed so happy to be around him.
All the same, it was still a pleasant thought, despite the tragedy that lay behind it. Or comforting that there at least had once been someone like that in his life. And it was part of a constellation of ideas and memories that Henry decided he might nurse for the entire evening, now that the fire was built and he had secured something good to drink.
But just as he began to consider that he might try another variety of Hannah’s Armagnacs in order to contemplate his past more deeply, his cell phone rang. At first Henry thought he might ignore it, not recognizing the number on the telephone. But he eventually answered, thinking it might be some elderly relative calling to wish him a merry Christmas. Instead, it was Abby, and although she did at first say she was calling from Saratoga Springs to wish him a merry Christmas, she also said she had more specific matters to discuss.
“So I guess the storm is pretty bad up there,” she said.
Henry looked out the window. He’d almost forgotten about the storm, now that he was in front of the fire. The storm was still raging—almost worse now. “It is pretty bad,” Henry finally agreed.
“We’re getting killed here,” Abby said. “But it seems like you’re even worse off. I guess a lot of roads are closed for the night.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. The roads were terrible getting here.”
“Anyway, Hannah wanted me to make sure you’re not dead and that the farm’s all right. She also wants you to check on the goats. Make sure they’re all right. But that’s it. I’m going to try to leave early tomorrow. Hopefully the roads will be passable by then. I should make it there one way or another, though. I’m taking my dad’s car. But you’ll be on your own tonight and a lot of tomorrow.”
“That sounds fine to me,” Henry said. He thought for a moment that perhaps he’d buy some Armagnac when he got home. He wondered, specifically, how much this particular bottle cost and he even considered that maybe he’d like to open a small shop in Williamsburg that sold nothing but Armagnac. “Everything is great here, though,” he finally added.
“Do you have a fire?”
“I have a fire. And I found the liquor cabinet. We’ll have lots of fun tomorrow. We can play gin rummy in front of the fireplace.”
Henry expected Abby to say something like, I can’t wait or even, Don’t drink everything before I get up there. But there was no response, and Henry had the vague idea that Abby was about to scold him for some inadvertent offense. But there was nothing. At last, Henry said, “Hello? Hello?” several times.
There was still no response. Henry pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it. The screen read, “No Reception.”
He stared at his phone for another second, then stood up and walked to a cordless phone at the far side of the room. He’d call her back that way. But the cordless phone was dead as well. And then, in the next instant, the one small lamp that Henry had on in the living room flickered, and then it flickered again, and then it went out.
Henry walked through the back hall to the kitchen and tried the lights there. They were also off. It was still light outside, so he could see fairly well in the house. But after trying several other light switches, he determined that the electricity was now clearly out. This was probably not a very good development, Henry thought, although also probably nothing to worry about. He’d just have to keep an eye on things.
And perhaps this ought to begin with the goats, seeing as they were the one thing that really concerned Abby and Hannah.
12
HENRY COULD HARDLY help but think that these so-called Libyan goats were—even to the layman—magnificent-looking animals. They had intense glaring eyes, and black shining horns, and, although their coats were technically gray, in the now-dimming light of the Vermont winter, with the sun filtered through a terrible snowstorm and the large Plexiglas windows of the small barn, the goats looked blue. And not just gray with a bluish tint. Their coats were a sort of pure dark blue, unmistakable and with almost no gray in it at all.
They were certainly puzzling animals, and Henry thought that he’d definitely like to spend more time with them in the next day or so. But before he could think too deeply about the mysteries of animal life, he noticed something else. It was just a little colder than it should have been in the barn. The heat was electric—Henry could see that quickly enough from the ceiling installations—so it would now be out just like everything else electrical on the farm. And there was another problem. One of the windows had blown open, and freezing, snowy air was tumbling in—probably had been for some time.
Henry quickly walked to the window to shut it. He didn’t know the exact temperature inside, but it certainly was cold, and Henry remembered that Hannah had made the point on her tour that the goats needed to be warm—that their milk suffered from cold temperatures, and perhaps (Henry could only imagine) their bodies in general might have trouble with temperature drops.
Of course, how exactly to warm up a goat was just a little beyond Henry’s expertise. And, after all, they did have long woolly coats, and they were huddling together, and surely a barn was better than the wilderness, although Henry wasn’t sure if this species of goat had ever actually lived in the wilderness.
But the matter of the barn’s temperature was a question, and Henry decided he should think the matter over a bit, although he really wasn’t sure what his options were. He went back inside, put another log on the fire, poured another glass of Armagnac, and decided tentatively that it was probably foolish to worry about animals and cold weather because surely their natural instincts would somehow lead them through the trouble.
About ten minutes later, however, Henry was up and pacing again, and he eventually determined that he really ought to do something. He looked at the thermometer outside the kit
chen window and noticed the temperature had dropped about four degrees in the past half hour—astonishingly, it was now close to zero—and it was also quickly getting darker. He found several flashlights in a kitchen cupboard, although he didn’t quite need them yet, then put on his coat and hat and headed back to the barn.
The wind was now much more powerful, and the snow was moving in a nearly horizontal direction. In fact, because of the tremendous wind gusts, the snow was also exploding in big clouds blowing up from the ground. And it really was much, much colder—Henry didn’t need the kitchen thermometer to see that. He wasn’t sure what sort of weather systems caused this kind of thing, but this really did feel like what a blizzard was supposed to be, both by formal definition and by direct experience.
It was unclear, however, whether or not the goats understood that things were getting worse for them. When Henry arrived in the barn, he saw that the window had stayed shut, but it was already much, much colder. The goats were still huddled together, more tightly now, though, and when Henry approached them, he thought he saw one or two of them shiver, although the physical movements of goats were, of course, something that Henry had no familiarity with at all. Still, it seemed like he should do something. It seemed that he needed to deal with the fact that their barn was without heat and that the temperatures would soon drop below zero and stay that way for the night and probably the next day. The goats were only going to get colder, and they were, after all, the most important (the most irreplaceable) asset on the farm. The question was, what to do.
For just a moment, Henry did arrive at a somewhat interesting idea stemming from a book he’d read in college about the history of “rural dwellings” in early modern Europe. It pointed out that livestock often slept right in the house with the owner to protect it from inclimate weather and bandits and whatever else might harm it. And it did (just for a brief moment) seem to Henry that it might be possible to bring the goats into the house and keep them warm by the various fireplaces. It was not a very serious consideration, though, mostly because it was quickly transplanted by another, better, and much more sensible idea. He remembered on his first tour with Hannah at Highgate Meadows that there was a large gas-powered generator—large but reasonably portable because it was on wheels—located in the machine shed. He also remembered seeing the two space heaters in the shed, near the long workbench where various repairs were carried out. If he wheeled the generator over and hooked it up to the space heaters, he’d be able to heat up the goat barn quickly—again, because of the goats’ skittishness regarding open spaces, the barn was enclosed, relatively small, and easily sealed off, now that the window was secured. It wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes for the barn to warm up.
The Best of Youth Page 4
