by Jeff Gunhus
Food disposal comes first, tying off a garbage bag and scraping off all of the leftovers and the solidified grease left in the frying pans. She opens the front door to take out the trash, forgetting until she’s already outside that the front porch is where the bird carcass is. But there is no bird. Just like there’s no missing glass in the window in the door. Or wolves prowling the forest looking for her.
She drops the trash and goes back inside, slamming the door behind her. As she does, the square of the window she thought was broken the night before pops out and shatters on the floor.
“Damn it.”
She bends down to pick up the pieces, knowing if she doesn’t then one will end up buried in her bare foot at some point. As she picks them up, she notices something odd. Stuck to the edge of the glass is a layer of putty. She peels some of it off and rolls it in her fingers. It has the consistency of Play-Doh, soft and malleable. She stands and taps the glass pane next to the section that popped out, then feels the edges. Hard, cracked with age and weathering. The window that broke the night before is brand new. Someone repaired it while she slept. But why?
She opens the door and kneels down on her hands and knees to inspect the decking of the raised entryway. The wood slats are aged, worn by decades of hard New England seasons. There’s dirt rubbed into every crack. A thin layer of moss grows on the far edge where there’s no disturbance from foot traffic. But none of this is what she’s looking for. She puts her eye right up to the narrow space between the boards and examines the length of it before moving to the next one. And the next. On the third try, she sees something and lets out a little cry of excitement. She has to scramble down the short run of stairs to grab a small twig as a tool, then returns and stabs it into the crack. Twisting it just right, she lifts her find out high enough from the crack to pinch it between her thumb and forefinger. Carefully so as not to tear it, she extracts an eighteen-inch, single black feather from the crack. She holds it up, certain it’s from the bird she killed last night. No little raven feather either, but one that looks like it came from the big, ugly son of a bitch she’d first seen.
This was proof. Someone had cleaned up the mess.
Fixed the window.
Removed the bird.
Put the glass from the other window outside.
Granger. It had to be.
But why?
She tosses the feather, goes back inside the cabin and heads straight to the kitchen. One-by-one, she flings open the drawers and rifles through the contents looking for tools. She pulls out a meat tenderizer and puts it on the counter. The same with an oversized salad fork. But when she looks under the kitchen sink, she forgets those options as her hand wraps around the handle of a claw hammer. It couldn’t have been a better tool if she’d imagined it herself.
Hammer in hand, she walks across the cabin, not even acknowledging Underwood still squatting in the center of the dinner table. She heads straight for the wall she shot up the night before, rubbing her free hand over the surface. It takes a few seconds, but she comes to a patch that feels different than the rest of the wall. She looks at it closely, then touches her finger to the spot and pushes, sinking her finger in up to her first knuckle into soft putty. It’s the bullet hole.
“Son of a bitch,” she says to herself. “What the hell are you hiding behind this wall?”
She rears back and smashes the hammer into the wall. It breaks into the drywall, sinking a dent in the surface several inches wide. She swings again, the hammer spinning in her hand so that the claw end sinks in. She yanks on it and a chunk of the wall comes with it, sending a cloud of dust into the air.
With a yell, she hits the wall again. Harder. Ripping through the old crumbling drywall. She slams into it again and again, hardly noticing the rising pile of debris around her feet. She strikes faster, breathing hard, sweat covering her body. She hits the wall until her hands ache and her muscles quiver. Enlarging the hole, working to the edges, knowing in her heart that she’s uncovering something vital.
Then, just as suddenly as she started, she’s done. She steps back from the wall. The surface is obscured, dust drifting in the filtered sunlight. A breeze moves through the cabin, parting the cloud.
And there it is. A door. Right in the middle of the wall.
Begging to be opened.
She stares at the door, slowly regretting that she went looking for it. She eyes the debris covering the floor and wonders whether it’s possible to fit the pieces back together and repair the wall. She spends a few seconds imagining the effort it would take before giving up on the idea.
She walks up to the door and places her hand carefully on its surface. It’s cool to the touch, colder than it ought to be. She’s surprised to see how deep inside the wall the door is set, maybe a foot or more. Part of her was hoping it was just an old exterior door covered up in a remodel, but she knows that’s not the case. She’s looked at the cabin from the outside and if this was part of the wall then it would have stuck out from the wood siding. Besides, when people covered up doors they didn’t leave the handle on, did they? She traces the dull brass handle with her fingers, surprised to find that it’s icy cold.
She takes a step back, her legs unsteady, unsure what she wants to do next.
Chapter Ten
Rachel leans close to the door, listening for any sound of the other side. All she hears is her own breathing, which is faster than it ought to be and ragged from the fear clenching her chest. She edges closer, reaching out with her hand to touch the wall.
The second she touches it, something knocks on the door from the other side. Hard and insistent. She jumps back, holding up the hammer defensively. The sound comes again, only this time she’s ready for it. She lets out a short laugh, lowering the hammer. The knocking isn’t coming from the door she uncovered, but from the cabin’s front door.
“Hello?” calls John. “You in there? Everything all right?”
His voice carries through the cabin’s walls as if they aren’t even there. She can tell he’s on the move from the front door to the back of the cabin. If he gets to the back he’ll have a clear view of her little demolition project and she doesn’t want that.
“Just a second,” she says. She runs to the spare bedroom and rips a sheet off the bed. Back in the living room, she hangs the sheet on the ragged corners of her little demolition project so that the hole is covered up. There’s still debris all over the floor, but at least it’s something.
She hurries over to the front door and swings it open.
“Right here,” she says, stepping out on the landing. John’s already halfway down the length of the cabin, almost to the first windows, but he stops and walks back. “Sorry,” she says, pretending to comb her hair back into place with her fingers. “I was taking a nap.”
John grins. “Is that part of the writing process?”
“An essential one. Where do you think all the ideas come from?” Her voice comes out high and fast. She takes a steadying breath, trying to forget the door in the wall waiting for her inside. She notices he’s carrying two grocery bags, one under each arm. “Making another delivery?” she says, trying to sound casual.
He holds the bags up. “Thought you could use some supplies.”
She cranes her neck and steals a quick look inside. Milk, bread, lunchmeat, strawberries, a few other items on the bottom that she can’t see. “Thank you. This is nice, but you don’t need to keep bringing me food. I’m fine. Really.”
John looks at her oddly. “You sure? Is everything all right in there?” he asks. “You have… I don’t know… what is that?”
She looks down at her shirt and sees that it’s covered with drywall dust. She’s sure it’s in her hair and on her face too.
“Flour,” she says. “I was trying to make some pancakes or something. Got it everywhere.”
John leans over and tries to look past her into the cabin. She moves to block him.
“Some pancakes or something?”
&
nbsp; “I’ll clean it up,” she says. “Don’t worry.”
“What happened to the window?” he says, putting his foot on the first step leading up to the landing. She stands on the top of the stairs, blocking him.
“No big deal, really. And you know what, I’m right in the middle of writing an important scene. Do you think maybe you could do the whole landlord thing some other time?” She says it with a smile, but she knows she sounds guilty as hell.
“I thought you said you were making pancakes… or something,” John says. “No, wait. You said you were taking a nap.”
She closes the door behind her. “Here’s the deal. I’m blocked. I’ll admit that. I just need a little space, is all. You can understand that, right?”
John smiles and she notices just how damn good-looking he is.
“Sure, but what I don’t get is how holing yourself up in there will help you. Seems to me the way to unblock yourself is to get out in the world. Take a break.”
“That’s what you think?”
“That is what I think.” He takes another step up toward her, his tone deadly serious. “I have one word for you. Canoe.”
“What’s that?”
“Canoe. You know, two to three-person boat. Paddles. On the water.” He makes broad motions like he’s paddling a canoe. “There’s one right by the dock.”
She knows there is but all she can think about is the door waiting for her back inside the house. And what might be on the other side.
“Sorry, I really can’t. Maybe a different day?” she suggests, hoping this will be enough to send him on his way.
He just shrugs and takes another step up the stairs, so close now that she takes a step back. “Okay, let me just do a quick check through the house and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“No,” she says, a little too loudly. “I mean, sure. Let’s take the canoe out. Maybe it’ll help clear my head.”
He grins. “What a great idea.” He moves to squeeze past her on the stairs.
“Where are you going?”
“I was going to put these away first.”
She grabs the bags and takes them from him. “I’ll get these. Meet you down at the canoe.”
John looks past her toward the door, then leans to the side to look through a window. “Now you have me nervous. You have something in there you don’t want me to see?”
She laughs but it’s loud and sounds nervous even to her own ears. “Just dirty underwear and bad writing,” she says. “Trust me, I’m doing you a favor.”
John holds up his hands in surrender. “You win. I’ll meet you down there.” He turns and strides down the side of the house, angling toward the canoe in the weeds down by the dock. He doesn’t look left and so he never sees the new door she uncovered in the cabin’s wall.
She follows him down, her anxiety about getting back to the door melting away into an unexpected emotion: relief. The door scares her. And the decision whether she ought to open it or not is not a forgone conclusion. This gives her time to think it over and, hopefully, make the right decision on what to do.
Getting the canoe down to the water takes the two of them. They spend a couple of minutes picking out weeds, dead leaves and a few bugs from inside the boat. John produces two life jackets but they’re both eaten away by mold and smell like compost, so they opt out.
“Promise not to capsize us?” John asks.
“I make no promises. I haven’t been out on a canoe since I was a little girl.”
They push the canoe’s nose into the water and she jumps in while she’s still on dry land, crawling forward as she keeps her weight center-balanced.
“Just remember small moves,” John says as he pushes them the rest of the way into the water and jumps in the back. “Small moves and smooth strokes.”
“Uh… with what?”
They look back to the shore where the two paddles are still on the shore. John hangs his head, but he’s smiling. “Never said I was good at this. Stay right here.”
He rolls over the side of the canoe and into the water. It’s shallow, only up to his knees and he’s wearing shorts. He trudges through the water back to shore, grabs the paddles and makes his way back.
“What kept you?” she says.
“Now she gets a sense of humor,” he says, rocking the canoe as if to tip it over. He hands her one of the paddles and climbs back in. “Okay, like I was saying, small moves, easy strokes.”
She dips her paddle in the water. The lake is weirdly clear and she can see the rocky bottom slip by as they get under way. Neither of them says anything as they find their stroke, matching each other’s timing, and the canoe slices through the water. The sun comes out from behind a cloud and she pauses long enough to turn her face toward it with her eyes closed, soaking in the warmth.
“Nice, right?” John says.
It’s not really a question, more of a statement, but she answers anyway. “Nice,” she says, turning back to look at him. The strange door in the cabin and the pile of shredded drywall seem distant, like something imagined.
“I like to see you smile,” he says. “Not sure if I’ve seen that since you’ve been here.”
She turns back around and resumes her paddling. “Maybe you’re just not very funny, ever think of that?”
He laughs. “You know, that never crossed my mind. But now that you mention it, it explains a lot in my life.”
She laughs at the comment and they paddle without speaking, surprised that the silence is so comfortable. The exercise feels good too. Her shoulders start to burn from the repetitive motion but she doesn’t want to be the first to stop. They’re almost to the far end of the lake before he says something and it gives her an excuse to take a rest.
“So, what are you writing about?” he asks.
It’s an innocuous question, but in her blocked state it sounds like an accusation. She takes a breath and centers herself.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” she says.
“Would you rather talk about how the window in the cabin got broken?”
“Third option?” she asks.
“We can always talk about the weather. That’s usually safe.”
“The weather, huh? Okay, you start.”
“So, what kinds of things do you write about when it’s sunny with a slight breeze out of the west?”
She hits the water with her paddle and splashes him.
“Nice try. How about you? What do you do when you’re not showing up unannounced at your rental property with emergency rations for your guests?”
“Oh, I have several properties. I just move back and forth offering canoe tours. This is my third ride of the day.”
“The whole not-being-funny-thing, that really doesn’t stop you from trying, does it?”
He laughs and it feels warm like the sun.
“Just a numbers game. Enough jokes per minute and something’s bound to hit home.”
“So that’s your thing? Being quirky.”
“My thing?”
“You know, the thing you use to get through it all. Some people are smart-asses. Some are paranoid.”
“And you think I’m quirky?”
“Without a doubt,” she says. “Writers have keen powers of observation so our conclusions carry more weight than those of you mere mortals.”
“I see how it is,” John says. “I can live with quirky. Better than dorky, I guess.”
“Oh, it’s a fine line.”
John laughs again and it feels so familiar that it pulls at something in her chest. She tries to place it, maybe an old friend with a similar laugh, but she can’t grab on to the thread. And then it’s gone.
“So what’s your thing?”
“How’s that?” she says.
“Your thing. Your navigation tool through the world.”
Her smile fades. A dark cloud drifts across the sun, casting a cold shadow over them.
“I don’t think I know anymore,” she says, surprised at her honest
y with this stranger.
“That’s the risk, isn’t it?” John says. If her serious tone had thrown him off, he doesn’t show it.
“How do you mean?”
“You said it yourself, writers have these keen powers of observation. Observe too much and it’s easy to forget you’ve been put on this earth to be a participant.”
“Yeah, well there are worse things than forgetting.”
“I don’t know about that. Everything we do, everything that happens to us makes us who we are,” he says. “Forgetting something, even something bad, reduces us. Erodes who we are at the edges. Forget enough and that erosion can go to your core.”
She turns to look at him, wobbling the canoe as she does. “Someone’s been reading too many fortune cookies.”
He shrugs. “It’s what I believe.”
She nods, realizing he’s being serious. Before she can stop herself, she hears herself say exactly what she’s thinking, without filter. “And what if you don’t like who you are? What if your experiences create a person you don’t like? What then?”
John looks away and she could swear his eyes are welled with tears. He takes several moments, collecting himself, and she finds herself wishing she could take the words back.
“What are we going to do with you?” he says.
“That’s not an answer.”
John stands up in the canoe, the boat rocking as he balances.
“What are you doing?” she asks, grabbing the side rails of the canoe.
“Giving you an answer.”
He jumps off the canoe, nearly capsizing it. It’s an ungainly leap, arms and legs flailing. He disappears under the water and then comes up whooping like a kid who just conquered a mountain.
“Wow! That’s cold as shit!” he yells.
“What are you doing?” she says, bewildered but laughing.
He swims to the side of the canoe and holds on to the edge. The water must be cold because he’s out of breath, but God he looks alive. “You wanted your answer. Come on in.”
