by Sarah Cortez
But first she would have to walk to the village-one mile across the frozen lake.
There was a junk room on the far side of the kitchen door. Heather had looked in several times, but never entered. Maybe the next time Don dozed off, she could search there for something to wear on her feet. She might even find the gym bag. Don must have hidden it somewhere.
She would like to know how much money was in that bag. She was entitled to half, wasn't she? She had driven the car.
"Tell me about your brother," she said as they sat at the wooden table eating their supper of boiled rice. "The boy in the photograph."
"Why do you want to know?"
"Just wondered. Was he a lot younger than you?"
"Five years younger. He was twelve when he died.
"You told me there was an accident. Was that it?"
"Yeah. Charlie drowned." Don set down his spoon.
"Poor kid."
"He bugged me to bring him up here fishing. I used to come up with some other guys. We didn't want Charlie along, but Dad said we had to take him. We paddled over to the vil lage and bought a couple of forty-ouncers from Rosemary Bear Paw. Charlie never had a drink before. The guys thought he went outside to throw up. Drowned in six inches of water right by the shore." Don banged his fist on the table. "It wash t my fault. What kind of parents would throw out a seventeen-yearold kid because of an accident? When I phoned my grandfather, he hung up on me. It's their fault I ended up on the street."
"You weren't exactly on the street when I met you," she said. "You had a job pumping gas. As I remember, you had big plans."
"I was waiting for a break."
It had been a warm July day when Don first came into the drugstore where Heather worked. He had bought toothpaste. She remembered that because of his smile-the kind of smile that sells toothpaste on TV. Their fingers brushed when she handed him his change.
Next day he was back buying condoms. When she saw what they were, blood rushed to her face and she couldn't meet his eyes.
"When are you done working?" he had asked.
She didn't answer. But at 4 o'clock, the end of her shift, her heart beat fast to see him leaning against a black Mustang in the drugstore parking lot. He wore tight jeans and a dark green shirt open at the neck.
"Can I give you a lift?"
"No thanks. I don't have far to walk."
He had smiled. "We can go for a drive." Something shivered in the air between them.
"All right." I shouldn't be doing this, she told herself as she climbed into the car. From the beginning, she couldn't say no to Don.
"Name's Don," he had said.
"I'm Heather."
"I know."
"How?"
"Your badge."
"Oh. Of course." She had felt her cheeks redden.
He drove fast, with the window open and one arm along the back of the passenger seat. They had stopped for a hamburger at a crossroads restaurant, and then kept on going. He'd parked his car down by a river just past a little town. It was very quiet, almost as if the town were miles away, not barely out of sight behind a hill.
He removed a green plaid blanket from the trunk. Heather, pretending she didn't know what was coming, wished that she were wearing sexy underwear instead of cotton briefs. As he pulled her down onto the blanket, she remembered the condoms. Don was prepared. But he took a lot for granted, didn't he?
With her next paycheck, Heather had purchased five pairs of lace panties at La Senza. For the rest of the summer, she and Don had made love a couple of times a week, either on the plaid blanket or in the backseat-depending on the weather. In November they rented an apartment together.
To help out with expenses, Heather stole things from the drugstore: condoms, toothpaste, aftershave, deodorant. It was easy.
While they were sharing a joint one afternoon, Don said, "I've figured out a way to make some real money."
"How?"
"There's stuff with street value in that drugstore. Uppers. Downs. Dexedrine. Cold remedies. We can make crystal meth out of cold remedies right here in the kitchen." His eyes locked on hers. "What about it?"
She had felt scared. "I can't. I don't have access to the dispensary."
"I don't see any bars keeping you out."
"Only the pharmacists ever go behind that counter."
"Come on, Heather. Don't tell me you can't." A deep sigh. "This is the first thing I've ever asked you to do."
Don had pushed her for a couple of weeks before giving up. A cloud settled over their relationship. She had let him down.
A few weeks later, Mr. Stonefield, the drugstore owner, caught her sneaking a bottle of aftershave into her handbag. Peering at her through his trifocals, he said she was lucky he didn't press charges. This was true. But now she had no job, no income, and no chance to pick up little extras for Don. Again, she had let him down.
While Don napped-all he ever did was smoke and sleepHeather grabbed her chance to rummage in the junk room. There she found a man's rubber boot mixed up with rusted buckets, fishing poles, kerosene cans, and coils of rope. Embossed in the boot's red sole was the number 13. Further searching produced the boot's mate. When she turned the second boot upside down, mouse dirt and popcorn kernels rained onto the floor.
Gingerly she pulled on the boots and took a few steps. It was like trying to walk with her feet in a pair of cardboard cartons.
Don opened his eyes as she stomped into the main room. "You look like a circus clown," he said.
She didn't care what she looked like, as long as he didn't take away the rubber boots. For the rest of the day she tramped around the cottage, bumping into furniture and tripping over her own feet-sometimes on purpose, to demonstrate that she couldn't run fast enough to escape with them on her feet. He let her keep the boots.
An airplane droned in the distance, louder and louder, coming from the south. Heather, wrapped in her sleeping bag on the love seat, looked up. Through the tall windows she saw the plane's black shape against the gray sky.
"Cessna," Don said. "Single engine."
"Is it coming here?"
"How would I know?"
"It is coming here!" As it descended, she saw that the plane was yellow, not black, and that it had skis instead of wheels. Heather's heart pounded. She wanted to run out onto the snow-covered lake, wave her arms, and shout: This way! Save me!
But before reaching Osprey Lake, the plane dipped behind the trees and disappeared.
Don walked over to the window. "Not coming here. It's landing on Mud Fish. Could be the air ambulance." He lit a cigarette, smoked it to the butt, and then lit another from it. The engine's drone continued.
"He's not sticking around or he'd have killed the engine," Don said. "He's picking up somebody or letting somebody off."
The air rumbled as the plane took off. It reappeared above the trees, circled, and headed south. An ache of loneliness came over her. She felt abandoned, like a castaway on a desert island who watches a ship draw near and then sail away. She squeezed her eyes shut to stop her tears as she listened to the receding drone.
Don flopped into a chair. "How about something to eat?"
"There's nothing left but sugar and flour."
"Can't you make something out of them?"
"Such as?"
"Bread, maybe?"
"Christ! And you think I'm dumb!"
Heather pulled on the rubber boots, clomped into the kitchen, and lit the Coleman. A skin of ice had formed on the water that she had melted from snow two hours earlier. She broke the ice, poured water into a saucepan, and stirred in half a cup of flour and a spoonful of sugar.
While she was bringing it to a boil, she heard Don go out the back door. It sounded like he was straightening the woodpile, which was pointless since he wouldn't let them have a fire anyway. By the time he returned, the liquid in the pan had thickened enough to coat a spoon. She sipped a few drops, added a dash of sugar, then sipped again. Slightly better. After filling a couple
of mugs, she carried them into the main room.
Don stood by the windows, staring south at a pillar of black smoke that funneled into the sky. Something was burning, back there along the track.
She handed him a mug. Don cradled it in his hands.
"Looks like a big fire," she said.
"Yeah. Somebody's torched the car." He raised the mug to his lips, grimaced as he swallowed. "What do you call this stuff?"
"Gruel, I guess."
"It's disgusting." He put his mug on the table. "We have to clear out."
"When?"
"First thing in the morning."
It was pitch dark outside when she heard the creak of the mattress. She knew that sound-how the mattress squeaked when you sat up, squeaked again when you rose from bed. Why was Don getting up?
The floor now creaked. He had left the bedroom. He had reached the back door. Maybe he just needed to pee. She turned her head, looked out the window, and there was Don, the gym bag in his hand. For an instant she could not believe it. Don was taking off with the money, and he was leaving her here alone.
She pulled herself out of the sleeping bag and, draping it over her shoulders, stumbled into the front room. She could see him from the window, heading toward the road.
"You greedy bastard," she said, right out loud. What kind of boyfriend would leave his girl to starve or freeze? Should she go after him? For the past six months she had been trotting after him like a love-sick puppy.
The thought filled her with sudden disgust. Let him go. He was welcome to the money in the gym bag. Providing she got out of here alive, she would be happy to never see him again.
I can walk to that village, she told herself. Find the blue house. Ask Rosemary Bear Paw to help me. She might know when the bus goes through Huntsville. Or maybe there's a closer stop, a depot in some country store along the way. Heather glanced at her wristwatch. Nearly 7 o'clock. It would soon be light.
Between the cottage and the hill there was shelter from the wind. But the moment she turned the corner, the wind slammed into her face. It howled across the lake, lashing her cheeks with icy grains that stung like tiny needles. The osprey nest at the top of the dead pine rocked in the wind.
Heather plodded on, her head bent to the wind. When she got back to Toronto, she'd find a job. Any kind of job. She didn't need much-a small apartment with a bathroom. Tub and shower. Lots of fluffy, warm towels. She wanted a kitchenette too, with a microwave and cupboards to store the delicious food she would buy. Kraft dinners. Chocolate chip cookies. Tim Hortons coffee. Would she tell the police about the hold-up? Definitely not. She never wanted to see Don again. Not in court. Not in prison. Not anywhere. If love was a sickness, she was cured. How could she ever have cared for such a loser?
Nearing the village, she saw that each snow-topped shanty had a snowmobile parked near its door. Except for one, the houses looked as if no paintbrush had ever touched them. That one house was blue.
Heather stumbled onto the shore and reached into her pocket for a tissue to wipe her dripping nose. She hadn't a clue what to say to Rosemary Bear Paw, beyond asking for a lift.
There was no sign of life in any of the houses. Outside the blue house, a scruffy brown dog lifted its leg against a yellow and black snowmobile. When the dog finished, it trotted to the house, acknowledging her with a glance over its shoulder. At the door it gave a sharp bark. The door opened just enough to admit the dog, then closed.
At her knock, the door opened again with a blast of warm air that smelled of tobacco and smoked fish. In front of Heather stood an enormous woman wearing a lumberjack shirt. She had a neck like a bull, and her shoulders sloped. Her face was coppery brown with wide cheekbones. Not an ancient face, but a face out of an ancient time. Beady eyes embedded in fat pouches regarded Heather with more suspicion than surprise. At her feet, the dog growled.
"Where'd you come from?" The woman had a tiny Cupid's bow mouth that scarcely opened when she spoke.
"Across the lake. I ... uh ... need a ride to the bus."
The woman eyed Heather from head to foot. She saw it all: the bomber jacket, the tight jeans, the rubber boots.
"I'll take you over for fifty bucks."
"Fine."
She opened the door wider. "Come inside before all the warm air gets out."
Heather stepped into a small room that was almost filled by the woman's bulk. In one corner stood a cast iron stove. On top of it a copper kettle steamed. A bed covered by a red blanket pressed against one wall. Near the opposite wall stood a wooden table and three chairs that did not match.
"Are you Rosemary Bear Paw?"
"You know my name? You come from Lawfords' place, I think." She took a green mug and a bottle of rye whiskey from a shelf, poured a shot, and handed it to Heather. "This will warm you up. You drink, then we go."
Heather did not want it. She had tried whiskey beforenasty stuff that tasted like nail polish remover. But as the warmth slid down her throat, she changed her mind.
Rosemary Bear Paw's dark eyes studied Heather's face. "I knew somebody was staying at the Lawford place. It don't take much to show me that. I don't ask questions. Been plenty trouble there already."
She lowered her bulk onto the bed and pulled on her boots, huffing as she leaned forward to lace them. "That hillside-in the old days, we buried our people there. Sacred land. My father told old man Lawford not to build there, but he don't listen. There's a curse on that place." With a grunt, she stood up and pulled her parka from a hook. "That Lawford boy and his friends used to come up here to get drunk. They said they come to fish, but I don't see nobody put their line in the water. Then the little kid drowned. That killed the old man." She wrestled her arms into the parka's sleeves. "For eight years, I don't see no family there." She finished with a pucker of her lips and a popping sound, like a kiss. "Huh! I tell you, the ancestors never leave this land."
I'm glad I'm leaving, Heather thought. The ancestors can keep it. I never want to see Osprey Lake again.
The woman held out her hand, which was dimpled and remarkably small, considering the size of her body. "Fifty dollars."
Heather handed over two twenties and a ten. The money went straight into a coffee tin on the table. Rosemary Bear Paw pulled on a pair of leather gauntlets decorated with bright beadwork-red, green, black, and white.
"We go before anybody else wake up."
Heather looked around but saw no sign of another person in the house.
"I mean neighbors. They're still sleeping. Nobody needs to know you been here." The dog followed them to the door. "Not this time," the woman added. The dog trotted over to the stove, turned around three times, and flopped onto the floor.
The snowmobile looked like a monster insect. No, not exactly an insect. More like that contraption the Space Centre sent up to Mars. It was a new machine, and probably worth more than all the houses of the village put together.
"You like it, eh? Ski-Doo Skandic SUV. Electric starter. Never stalls in the cold."
"Very nice."
"Hop on," the woman grunted. "We don't have all day."
For a moment, as she climbed onto the seat, Heather thought of asking if she could first use the bathroom. But the thought of another hole in a board over a stinking pit was too gross.
"Is it far to the bus station?" she asked, conjuring in her mind a modern facility. Shiny ceramic tiles. Flush toilets. Sinks with hot and cold running water.
"Not far." Rosemary Bear Paw started the engine.
The hills that rose up on either side seemed to channel the Ski-doo from lake to lake. The wind screamed in Heather's ears. This won't take long, she thought. But one lake led into another, and then another. No sign of a highway, a road, or a town. Where was this woman taking her? Heather saw nothing but rocks, trees, and the occasional boarded-up summer cottage.
If she had known it would take this long, she definitely would have asked to use the washroom. Her bladder pressed sorely. The vibration of the machine made
it worse. She panicked. What if she wet herself? She would rather die than go into a bus depot with pee leaked all over her pants.
By the time she let go of the right-hand grip to thump Rosemary Bear Paw on the back, it was nearly too late.
The snowmobile stopped, its motor still turning over. The woman shouted over her shoulder, "What's your problem?"
"I need to pee."
"Help yourself." Her tiny mouth spat out the words.
Heather dismounted and waded off through the snow. When she was a few yards behind the snowmobile, she unzipped her jeans. Rosemary Bear Paw swiveled on her seat to watch. Did she expect Heather to pee while being stared at? Why was she looking at her like that, taunting with those beady eyes? Heather felt like screaming: Turn your goddamn back! Not until Heather's panties and jeans were around her ankles did the woman avert her eyes.
Such a relief to release the flow, to feel the pressure ease! Heather relaxed as much as anyone could relax while squatting bare-bottomed in the snow.
The revving of the motor took her by surprise. She was still peeing when the engine roared and the Ski-doo sped away.
"Hey! Wait a minute!" she shouted, as if the snowmobile's departure were mere carelessness-a failure to notice that the passenger was not on board.
It took Heather ten seconds to realize that the snowmobile was not going to stop, another ten to claw her clothing into place. She stumbled through the snow, hollering, "Don't leave me here!" She chased after the Ski-doo, the diminishing roar of its motor humming in her ears even when it had disappeared behind a hill.
After disbelief, shock set in. The truth swept over her, buried her like an avalanche. She was alone in the middle of a frozen lake. The Ski-doo's track, a long scar in the white snow, was the only sign that it had ever been here. Everything else seemed like a bad dream. Only the track was real, and only it could save her. She had to follow that track, and quickly, before drifting snow erased it.
Which way should she go? Forward or back? It must be twenty miles back to Osprey Lake.
Forward, she decided. There would be a town beyond the next hill. She would come upon it soon. Snow swirled in every direction. Soon it covered the snowmobile's track.
