She didn’t tell anyone the truth.
Almost a month after Gary’s accident, she’d received his final American Express bill. The last charge on it, dated October 30, the day he died, was a $31.39 meal at Lou Lou’s Café in West Hall, Vermont. For some reason, he’d driven the three hours to Vermont, had a meal, then turned around and headed back to Boston. He’d taken the scenic route back, heading south on Route 5, which snaked its way down beside the interstate, I-91. It was snowing, an early-season squall, and Gary came around a bend too quickly, lost control of the car, and slammed into a ledge of rock. The state troopers told her he’d been killed instantly.
When she took the trip up to the garage in White River Junction to claim any belongings inside Gary’s car, she took one look at the deployed airbags, the smashed windshield, and the whole front end crushed like an accordion, and actually fainted. In the end, there wasn’t much to claim anyway—some papers from the glove box, an extra pair of sunglasses, Gary’s favorite travel mug. The thing that she was really hoping to find—the black backpack he used as his camera bag—was not in the car. She tried to track it down, pestering mechanics at the garage, the insurance adjuster, the state police, and the staff in the emergency room—but everyone denied having seen it.
Gary had left home at ten that morning with his backpack, saying he had a wedding to shoot in Cambridge and he’d be home in time for dinner.
Why had he lied?
The question plagued her, ate away at her. She searched through his desk, files, papers, and computer and found nothing out of the ordinary. She called his friends, asked if they knew of any buddies Gary had in Vermont—any reason he might go up there.
No, they all said, they couldn’t think of anyone. They told her he’d probably heard about a great antique shop, or just wanted a drive. “You know Gary,” his best friend, Ray, had said, choking up a bit, “a spur-of-the-moment guy. Always up for an adventure.”
As soon as she opened the bill with the charge from the café in West Hall, Katherine got in the car and started driving north. She found West Hall, Vermont, about fifty miles north of where Gary had had his accident.
It was the quintessential New England small town: a downtown with three church steeples, a granite library, a town green with a gazebo in the middle. Beyond the town green, she passed by the West Hall Union School, where small children in winter coats and hats were out on the playground tossing balls and climbing on an elaborate, brightly colored play structure. She thought of Austin—how much he loved to climb and showed no fear, going up to the top of any structure and hollering, “I’m King of the Mountain!” For half a second, she almost believed she could see him there, the wiry boy with the curly hair perched on top. Then she blinked, and it was someone else’s child.
She followed the road, which took her past the Cranberry Meadow Cemetery—full of old, leaning stones and enclosed with a rusted wrought-iron fence. She looped back around toward the downtown area and found Lou Lou’s Café on Main Street, tucked between a bookstore and a bank, all of them sharing the same big brick building. She went in, ordered a coffee, and looked out the large plate-glass window at the street, thinking, This was what Gary looked at while he ate his last meal.
She had a clear view of the town green. It was a bright, cloudless November day. The trees that lined the green were bare now, but back when Gary was here, they might have been glowing red and orange, leaves falling as storm clouds gathered.
“But what were you doing here?” she asked out loud.
Glancing at the prices on the menu, she decided he must have met someone. The entrées were no higher than twelve dollars—even if he’d ordered a beer, he couldn’t have eaten a thirty-one-dollar meal here by himself.
“Excuse me,” Katherine called as the waitress passed by. “I’m wondering if you can help.” She pulled out the little photo of Gary she kept in her wallet. “I wonder if you might recognize him. He was in here last month.”
The waitress, a young woman with dyed-blue bangs and a yin-yang tattoo on the back of her hand, shook her head. “You should ask Lou Lou,” she said, nodding in the direction of the woman behind the counter. “She remembers customers real well.”
Katherine thanked her, got up, and approached the owner—Lou Lou herself, who was dripping with silver-and-turquoise jewelry and had short bright-red hair.
Lou Lou recognized Gary immediately. “Yeah, he was here, can’t say when, but not all that long ago.”
“Did he meet someone?”
Lou Lou gave her a quizzical look, and Katherine thought of breaking down, explaining everything: He was my husband, he was killed in an accident only hours after he sat in here eating a sandwich and soup or whatever, I’ve never even heard of this place, why was he here, please, I need to know.
Instead, she stood up straight, said only, “Please. It’s important.”
Lou Lou nodded. “He was with a woman. I don’t know her name, but she’s local. I’ve seen her around, but can’t place where.”
“What did she look like?”
Was she pretty? Prettier than me?
Lou Lou thought a minute. “Older. Long salt-and-pepper hair in a braid. Like I said, I’ve seen her around. I know her from somewhere. I don’t forget faces.”
Katherine spent nearly two hours in Lou Lou’s, having coffee, then soup and a sandwich, then a slice of red-velvet cake. All the while, she wondered what Gary had eaten, which table he’d sat at. She felt close to him, like he was right there beside her, sharing a secret in between bites of cake.
Who was she, Gary? Who was the woman with the braid?
She watched the people coming and going along the sidewalk: people in fleece jackets and wool sweaters, a couple of men in red plaid hunting jackets, two kids with hoodies on skateboards. She didn’t see one person in a suit, or even a tie or high heels. So different from Boston. People actually smiled and said hello to each other on the street. Gary must have loved it.
They used to talk about leaving the city, moving to a small town like this, how it would be so much better for Austin. Gary had grown up in a small town in Idaho and said it was kid heaven—there was room to breathe, to explore, you knew your neighbors, and your parents didn’t mind if you were out late because bad things never happened there. You were safe.
Katherine stopped at a bulletin board in the hall on the way out of Lou Lou’s Café. She glanced at the notices on it: Trek mountain bike for sale, Bikram yoga classes, a flyer announcing that the farmers’ market would be in the high-school gymnasium during the winter months, a poster looking for fellow believers to join a UFO-hunting group. And there, right in the middle, a no-nonsense sign: Apartment for rent. Downtown in renovated Victorian. One bedroom. No pets. $700 includes heat. There were little tabs at the bottom with the phone number to call.
Then she felt it again: Gary standing beside her, putting his arm around her, whispering, Go ahead and take one. Without thinking, she tore off one of the phone numbers and tucked it in the pocket of her jeans.
Good girl, Gary whispered, a gentle hiss in her right ear.
Isn’t it about time to get to work? Gary asked her now, voice teasing, soothingly familiar, as she sat at the kitchen table in her new apartment. Katherine stood up, went over to the counter to refill her coffee cup, then made her way into the living room, between its stacks of boxes, and over to the art table. It was an old farmhouse kitchen table that she’d had since graduating from college, three feet wide and five feet long, made from thick pine planks. It was scarred with saw, knife, and drill marks, splattered with years’ worth of paint drops and smudges. There was a vise set up on the right side, which was also where she kept her tools: hammer, saws, Dremel, soldering iron, tin snips, drill and bits, along with a plastic toolbox full of various nails, screws, and hinges. In the middle, at the back, was a coffee can full of paintbrushes, X-Acto knives, pens, and markers. In a carefully labeled wooden cabinet to the left of the table were all her paints and finishes.
There, in the center of the table, was the latest box, the one she’d stayed up late into the night working on. A four-by-six-inch wooden box, it was titled The Wedding Vows. On the front were two double doors, styled like church windows with stained-glass designs. When you opened these, there was the wooden altar with a tiny photo of Katherine and Gary on their wedding day, both looking impossibly young and happy, not noticing the shadowy crow that peeked out at them from behind the curtain. Until Death Do Us Part was written in neat calligraphy, a promise held in the air like a sweet cloud above their heads. But down in the shadows below their feet were miniature skid marks on a narrow winding road, and over at stage left, half of a ruined matchbox car poked its way through the side of the box, its front end smashed. At the very bottom, two simple lines in quotation marks: “I’ve got a wedding to shoot in Cambridge. I should be home in time for dinner.”
This morning, she’d put the finishing touches on this box—a bit of silver trim around the windows, gold paint for the cross on top—then coat the whole thing with matte varnish. After that, she’d start work on the next in the series: His Final Meal. She didn’t have the details for this one worked out at all, only that the door would open onto a scene in Lou Lou’s Café: Gary and the mystery woman. She was counting on Gary to help out, to lead her along and show her what details to add. Gary as Muse.
Sometimes, only sometimes, when she was good and lost in her art, if she closed her eyes, Gary was right beside her again, whispering his secrets in her ear. She could almost see him: his dark-brown hair with the funny cowlicks, the freckles across his nose and cheeks that multiplied when he was out in the sun too long.
Gary, who loved a good ghost story. Gary, who once teased her by saying, “You better hope you’re the one to die first, babe, ’cause if I do I’m gonna come back here and haunt your ass.”
She smiled now, thinking of it. She picked up the blue pack of American Spirits—the last of the carton she’d found in Gary’s studio. She hadn’t smoked since college, and was always hounding Gary to quit, always complaining of the smell on his clothes and hair. Now she found the smell of cigarette smoke comforting, and allowed herself one cigarette a day. Sometimes two. She shook one out of the pack and lit up, knowing it was a little early, not caring.
“What were you doing here, Gary?” she asked out loud, watching the smoke drift up; she secretly hoped that if she started building the next box, adding in details, the answers might come. “Who’s the woman with the braid? And where can I find her?”
Ruthie
“Eighteen, nineteen, twenty,” Ruthie shouted out, hands covering her face. She opened her eyes, stood up from the couch, and hollered, “Ready or not, here I come!”
Hide-and-seek was Fawn’s favorite game, and they’d been playing for nearly an hour now, starting just after they’d washed and put away the breakfast dishes. Ruthie thought it might help take Fawn’s mind off Mom’s being gone. She also decided that it was an efficient, even fun, way for them to search the house for clues. There were always two rules when they played hide-and-seek. The first was that Mom’s room, the basement, and outside were off limits. The second rule was that Fawn always hid. Ruthie was claustrophobic and couldn’t stand fitting herself into tight, dark places. Fawn loved hiding, and she was really good at it; a few times, Ruthie even had to shout that she gave up, so Fawn would come popping out of some unlikely place—the laundry hamper, the cabinet under the kitchen sink.
“Where can she be?” Ruthie asked loudly as she searched the living room. She peered behind the couch, then went into the front hall and looked in the closet. From there, she moved on to the kitchen, where she carefully checked each cupboard. Nothing. Surely Fawn couldn’t fit herself into one of the drawers? Ruthie checked anyway. “Have you turned into a little mouse and crawled somewhere I’ll never find you?” Ruthie called.
This was also part of the game, the constant silly banter that sometimes made Fawn giggle and give herself away.
For twenty minutes, Ruthie searched the house, looking in all of Fawn’s favorite places, but found no sign of her sister.
“Are you under Daddy’s desk? Nope. Have you turned into a speck of dust and blown away?”
Fawn wasn’t in any of the closets, under any bed or table, or lying in the bathtub with the shower curtain drawn around her. Ruthie even checked under the old claw-foot tub, remembering that once she’d found her sister crammed in there on her belly.
Usually when she couldn’t find her sister, Ruthie just got annoyed. Today she felt panic rising, growing stronger as she checked each empty hiding place.
What if Fawn really was gone? What if whatever happened to their mom had happened to her?
Stop it, she told herself. It’s only a game.
“Fawn?” Ruthie called out. “I give up! Game’s over! Come out!”
But Fawn did not appear. Ruthie went from room to room, calling out, listening intently for a giggle or a rustle, as a cold sweat gathered between her shoulder blades. She ended up back in the living room, right where she’d started, on her knees, looking behind the couch.
“Boo!”
Ruthie screamed. Fawn was right behind her.
“Where were you?” Ruthie asked, relief flooding through her.
“Hiding with Mimi.” The doll dangled limply from Fawn’s hand.
“Where?”
Fawn shrugged. “It’s a secret. Are we done playing now?”
“I’ve got a new game,” Ruthie said. “Come on.” She led her sister up the stairs to Mom’s room.
“What are we doing in here?” Fawn asked. Mom was big into “respecting each other’s private spaces,” which meant: don’t enter without knocking, and no snooping when no one was there. Ruthie couldn’t remember the last time she’d even set foot in her mother’s bedroom—back when her father was alive, maybe.
It was the largest bedroom in the house, but seemed larger still because of its sparseness: white walls with ancient cracks in the plaster; only a bed, a dresser, and one bedside table; no art on the walls; no clutter. Not even a stray sock on the old pine floors, just a couple of hand-loomed wool throw rugs on either side of the bed.
Her mother had the best view in the house, too, the window beside the bed looking north out across the yard and to the wooded hillside. In the fall and winter, when the leaves were off the trees, you could see all the way out to the Devil’s Hand, at the top of the hill. Ruthie stared out that way now, catching only a glimpse of rock peeking through the blanket of thick snow. Then, for a split second, she caught a glimpse of movement—a shadow sliding out from behind the rocks, and back. There, then gone. A trick of the light, she told herself, turning away.
“We’re playing a new game,” Ruthie told her little sister. Fawn’s eyes widened.
“What kind of game?”
“A searching game.”
“Like hide-and-seek?”
“A little. Only we’re not looking for each other, we’re looking for clues.”
“Oooh, clues!” Fawn squealed. Then she got serious. “What kind of clues?”
“We’re looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything unusual. Anything that might help us figure out where Mom might be.”
Fawn nodded enthusiastically. She held Mimi by the arm—something Mom had made. The yellow yarn hair was matted now, the fabric on her hands and feet worn through and patched in places. She had a carefully stitched smile that always kind of creeped Ruthie out and reminded her of a scar, or of lips sewn closed to keep the thing quiet. Mimi was always whispering to Fawn, telling her secrets. When Fawn was very young, they’d find her hiding in the closet with the doll on her lap, deep in conversation.
Ruthie smiled down at her sister. “Are you and Mimi ready to play?”
“Let me see if Mimi is,” she said, holding the doll’s face up to her ear and listening. Fawn listened for a minute, nodding, then put the doll down. “Mimi says yes, but she wants to know if we can play real hide-and-s
eek again after.”
“Haven’t we played hide-and-seek enough for one day?”
“Mimi doesn’t think so,” Fawn said.
“Okay, we’ll play one more round after,” Ruthie promised. “Oh, I forgot to tell you the best part about this looking-for-clues game—there are prizes. One chocolate kiss for each clue found.”
“From Mom’s secret stash?”
Ruthie nodded. Mom kept a bag of Hershey’s Kisses hidden away in the back of the freezer, and neither girl was allowed to touch it unless offered, usually as a bribe. Mom didn’t approve of the girls’ eating refined sugar, so chocolate was always a big treat, especially for Fawn.
“Ready, set, go!” Ruthie called, but Fawn stayed frozen.
“I’m not sure where to look,” she said.
“You’re a kid! Use your imagination! If you wanted to hide something in here, where would you put it?”
Fawn looked around. “Under the bed?” Her voice came out small and shy.
“Maybe,” Ruthie said. “Let’s check it out.” They both dropped to their knees to peer under the bed. Nothing under there but years’ worth of dust bunnies.
Ruthie checked the floor under the bed for loose floorboards. When she was very young, she’d discovered a nice little hiding place under a loose board in her own room, right under the bed. Over time, both she and Fawn had found many little places like this throughout the house: a small hidden door that opened behind the cabinet they kept the plates in; a corner of the doorframe leading from the kitchen to the living room that popped out to reveal a little niche, perfect for hiding a tiny treasure. It seemed likely that there was at least one secret place in Mom’s room.
The Winter People Page 7
