Practical Sins for Cold Climates

by Shelley Costa

  “Sit down, Val,” was all he said, giving her an unreadable look, and then, “I’ll get us there.” And keep you warm and dry. The laughter and the bluegrass band went on without them as they pulled away from the dock, and Val felt the only thing on Earth that was holding her up was the fist clenched hard against her teeth. He held out a light mounted on a pole for night boating and motioned for her to position it in the bow. Shivering hard, she crawled over the seats and stuck it in the holder and flicked it on, the red and green glowing when nothing else in her mind was. When she climbed back to the middle, she saw he had mounted a white light in the stern.

  He tossed her the dry bag. “Take the sweatshirt,” he yelled. With fingers barely moving, she undid the clasps and tugged out a sweatshirt she pulled on, then snapped the bag shut. The sky clouded over, only the very brightest stars made an effort, and the moon wasn’t up. Those little battery-operated lights were all they had, and Val sat hunched over, cold, as Decker flew the boat over a deep black lake he knew well. Hunched over her knees, silently keening, all she could say to herself was no, no, no. They had given Martin a one-hour head start. There was just no way they’d get to Camp Sajo before he did, his reputation in tatters, his wife gone, his property threatened, his freedom in question.

  Ahead of them the distant sky glowed. Decker swerved at high speed into the West Arm and the glow brightened. Val couldn’t get oriented. Was it still somehow the vestige of a sunset? Around them, the islands were looming black shapes, unrecognizable. Did they pass the Hathaway cottage, where Peter should himself be damn well asleep, only he thought Val was still staying there? Because she hadn’t told him she had left. Oh, God.

  A smell drifted high across the water toward them, getting stronger as they neared Camp Sajo. Decker rounded another island—Charlie Cable’s old place?—and when they did, everything became horribly clear. In the distance, the boathouse at Camp Sajo was on fire. Against the black night the flames roared. “Holy hell” was all Decker said as he cut the motor in his approach to the dock.

  “Oh, God, Wade, hurry.” She started to climb out.

  “Sit down.”

  “Peter’s in the boathouse!”

  “Val, sit down.”

  She couldn’t. As they came alongside the dock, Val tumbled out, ripping her dress, and secured the line with cold, shaking hands. Fire was everywhere. She ran stumbling up to the boathouse, aware of Decker moving quickly behind her in the hellish glow. “Peter!” she yelled, not knowing where to run or how to get in. The front door knob seared her hand. She ran to a window and looked in, but the heat pushed her back.

  Was he dead inside? Her heart felt blasted with loss and impotence, and her anger made her wild. Goddamn Kelleher. She started to grab at the window, but the wood was smoking and her hand jumped back. “Peter!” Through the window she saw a center beam collapse with a deafening rush.

  Where was Decker?

  As she tore off the sweatshirt to wrap around the metal door knob, she heard hissing and couldn’t figure out what it was or where it was coming from. The door wouldn’t open. Shit. It was one thing to lose the evidence, but another thing to lose the man she had loved not all that long ago. “No,” she cried, tugging at the handle. The hissing grew louder. She was paralyzed by grief. “Peter!” She pounded on the burning door, as if he could let her in.

  From the back of the boathouse Decker yelled, “Run!” It was far away and made no sense and all she wanted was to get to Hathaway. “Val, run!” She backed away from the boathouse, stumbling, her skin writhing with heat from the fire, her hands blackened. She backed away, weak and staggering, to look at the place that was denying her.

  She couldn’t get in.

  And she couldn’t leave.

  She couldn’t leave.

  In the moment before the explosion, she saw Decker launch himself at her through space like all the truths since the beginning of time were located in him and she was about to learn them the hard way. He landed on her in a clutch that left no room for air, hurling them both over the rock, twisting so he’d take the brunt of the fall, as a flaming raft of exploded wood sailed over them. It felt to Val like his head and neck hit the rock hard.

  When the second propane tank blew, with a grunt he pressed her under him, covering her so completely that her face was jammed into his neck as she heard the shards of shattered window glass fall like sleet around their feet. Her ribs hurt. It hurt when she breathed—and it hurt when she didn’t. “He isn’t in there,” Decker said, his voice pained, his lips moving against her skull. “I got around to the back window.”

  “What—”

  “Peter’s not inside.”

  She pulled her head to the side, straining. The explosions had taken out half the cottage and spread the fire to the island. “Wade.” She grabbed him, feeling his grip on her loosen. “Wade, we’ve got to get out of here.”

  He slid off her slowly, and in the sickly orange light, she got to her feet, wondering if her ribs were broken. Decker was on all fours, hardly moving. She got under his left side, flung his arm over her back, and pushed him to his feet. If they fell, she didn’t think they’d be able to get up again. The sound of burning wood surrounded her and she started to cry, stumbling with Decker over the ragged rock and down to the dock, where she lowered him into one of the chairs and looked back.

  She dashed to the lodge, her skin hardening and standing away from her flesh in the heat, and stumbled up the porch steps. Inside, she ran into the office, fumbled the phone, and dialed 911. Nearly yelling, she identified herself to the dispatcher and reported the fire, then flew back down the path. Bushes were crackling, the pine needle floor was smoking where the blasted pieces of the boathouse wall were spreading the fire. She couldn’t look anymore. In the waves of vermilion firelight she reached Wade Decker on spindly legs, then helped him out of the shadows, where he was holding his head, moaning, and eased him into the boat.

  He rolled slowly to the floor between the seats, his shirt twisted and torn. Val released the rope, threw the end into the boat, and climbed shaking into the stern. She ran a hand over her face and started the motor.

  Shifting into reverse, she pulled away from the dock, rocking hard in the waves, and prayed it wouldn’t conk out on her. Then she turned the bow toward the black horizon that terrified her more than staying behind. And then, with a pang, she realized she didn’t know where to go. Behind her, the fire was spreading. But ahead of her was a vast and horrifying blankness. Her mind was completely empty. Do something, damn it.

  Val shifted into neutral and they drifted for a minute while her ribs throbbed. “I can get us back to the dance,” she blurted. Not even sure whether it was true.

  With an effort, Decker pulled himself up far enough to grab her shaking arm. “And take a chance of running into Martin on the way?” It hadn’t occurred to her. “No,” he said, letting her go.

  In the firelight his face was pulled out of shape from pain. Val felt alarmed. “I have to get you to a hospital.” Sometimes things are just that clear. Her voice was high and unfamiliar, but it sounded like the only thing to do, and she lurched the boat forward. If they ran across Martin Kelleher along the way, maybe she could outrun him.

  Decker raised himself up on his elbow. “No,” he said, “I’ll be okay.”

  Val yelled, “I have to get you to a goddamn hospital, and that’s—”

  He overrode her with a flash of anger. “I said no!” She felt stunned. Decker ran a hand that looked misshapen over his face. Then he hoisted himself onto the middle seat and hung his head. “Just get me out of here. I can’t watch this place burn.” After a moment, he looked at her pleadingly. “Take me home.”

  At that, Val felt angrier than she could ever remember. “Take you home? And do what? Make you a fucking cup of tea, Wade? Look at you.” She flung an arm in his direction, noticing how cold she felt.

 
“You heard me,” he said with stiff dignity, and as he turned his back to her, he added, “Just take me home.”

  There was a catch in his voice. Cold and scared, she puttered the boat along. “Why are you being so—”

  “I’ve got a rifle,” Decker told her with a flash of energy. “If he comes after us, at least I’ve got a rifle.”

  A rifle? What good was that going to do them? She felt her fingers stiffen around the throttle. “I don’t know how to use a rifle any more than I know how to paddle a canoe,” she cried.

  “But I do. My place is closer than any other option, Val. We’ll wait it out—”

  This time, she was louder. “—and go to the hospital first thing in the morning.”

  Decker straddled the seat. “So bossy,” he said softly. “We’ll go at first light. I promise.” Then he squinted at her. “I’ll be fine overnight, Val. Really. I just need to be in my own bed.”

  She still didn’t like the plan, but she didn’t like any other plan any better. “Is your goddamn collarbone broken, Decker?” She sounded like she was accusing him of trying to put something over on her.

  As he started to lean back against the side, Val stuffed an extra life jacket under his head. “My guess is,” said Decker, flopping a forearm over his eyes, “I’m banged up and maybe I’ve got a concussion.” He tried to sit up. “Look, I’ve been in this spot before, and I came through just fine—”

  “Oh, really? When?” She was hardly listening, just trying to get oriented to the boat.

  “Rugby. At university. Three times. Do you want an affidavit?”

  She crossed her arms. “You’re a pain in the ass,” she cried.

  “But you have to admit,” he said groggily, “a pretty fine dancer.”

  Scrambling over him, she opened the stowage, pulled out a flashlight, and turned it on. She was shivering from cold and fear, but Val thought she could find where they were on the map and get to Decker’s—maybe not fast, but at least get there. When she heard gurgling noises, she turned the light on Decker. She gently pulled his arm away from his face and turned his head toward her. There was blood, she couldn’t tell how much, where he had hit the rock with Val wrapped in his arms. With flat palms, she swallowed hard and felt his entire head, looking for God knows what, then ran her fingers over his neck. Nothing. Then she undid his shirt and peeled back the fabric. She swept the flashlight once quickly outside the boat to check their position and then turned it on Decker again.

  A layer of skin had been sheared off over the right side of his collarbone, but it had already stopped bleeding. She pressed it. He jerked away with a cry and started to retch. Val set the flashlight on the seat and turned it away from his face. With cold fingers she gently buttoned his shirt and lifted him up just enough so he could turn his head away from her when he started to throw up.

  “Oh shit, Val,” he said.

  She helped him crawl to the seat in the stern and settled him on the floor of the boat at her feet. If he had a concussion, she had to keep him conscious, although she no longer knew why. She took her place next to the motor and pulled Decker up between her legs, leaning his chest against her thigh, her arm across his trembling shoulders. With all their weight in the stern now, it was going to be a slower ride than she had hoped.

  Val shifted into forward and headed the boat toward what she believed was the channel, where if she stayed steady, before too long she’d see the channel marker. She hoped to hell she was supposed to keep to the left of the red buoy. With a sudden heave, Decker clutched her thigh and threw up. She tightened her hold on him. “Sorry,” he said a moment before his body jerked and he threw up again, more violently. Her eyes straight ahead, she stroked his back, and began the song where the jolly swagman was under the shade of the coolabah tree. Her teeth chattered so uncontrollably she thought they’d break.

  Val rotated the tiller to pick up speed. Once she got past Veil Point they were out of the West Arm and in a wide channel that would take her straight to the opening of Lightning Bay. With both of them in the stern, the bow was riding high out of the water, flopping hard on the dark waves, then came down when the boat started to plane.

  “When we get to the bay,” he said with effort, “stay straight down the middle. My place is at the back.”

  Just ahead was a red buoy. She steered to the left of it, and she could tell it was red for the same reason she didn’t need the map or the flashlight. The moon was full. The islands, the lake, the buoys, the night sky—she could pick them out in the light of the moon. With a steady turn of her wrist, she opened up the motor all the way.

  She didn’t cut the motor soon enough and hit Decker’s dock too hard, then swung the tiller to pull in the stern and pressed the off button. Moving him gently off her leg, she stepped over him, climbed onto the dock and tied the boat up tight against the pilings. Then she climbed back in and, crouching, slipped an arm under him. With the other arm supporting his back, she tried to raise him but only fell onto her knees. She couldn’t figure out how to move him forward without putting pressure on whatever part of his body was badly bruised. She wasn’t sure she could.

  Lifting him gently, she tugged him until his chest was against hers and she held on. His head lolled in the bend of her elbow, and together they smelled of fire and vomit. She put her mouth near his ear, her fingers splayed on his hair. “Wade,” she said. “Wade, I got you home. I’m going to get you inside, but you have to help.”

  He turned his face toward her and looked perplexed, then he flung his arm over her and practically pulled her down on top of him. They struggled, his other hand pushing against the inside of the boat, his feet pushing him up, and she got under him again. “Let me,” he whispered, and she let him go. He inched himself backwards onto the dock, finally, almost without the use of his arms, which he held clenched over his heart.

  She helped scoot him back so his legs cleared the boat, then she grabbed him behind the knees and pulled him onto his side. When he started to sit up, she scrambled behind him, got her arms around his chest, and helped. He bent one knee, leaned heavily on her for support, and finally stood.

  Her shoulder bracing him under the arm, they made it up the steps, flung open the door, and stumbled inside. Past the kitchen, past the sitting room where the slant of moonlight through the windows showed her the way, through the wide opening where he had to duck his head to clear the low beam, and into his bedroom.

  She sat him, slumped, on the edge of the bed, then crouched on the floor in front of him and took off his shoes, setting them aside, holding his feet in her two hands to offer comfort in ways she couldn’t name. To figure out where the hell to go from there. Decker injured, Kelleher roaming and desperate, and Peter—missing.

  Decker set a hand on her head, and as it slowly strayed back over her hair her chin was pulled up. Squinting at her, he let his hand slide down over her ear, until one by one his fingers left her face. “I have to lie down,” he said, slurred. As he stiffened his back, she could see him bite his lip, and he let himself sink back onto the mattress as she pulled his legs up.

  She shoved a cushion under his head, which made him start to roll. Her hand caught the far side of his face. “Wade, help me.” She couldn’t get any leverage. She climbed on the bed, dragged the other cushion into position near his head and, thankful he was nodding off, straddled his chest.

  With one hand she grabbed as much of his shirt as she could and yanked him toward her as her free hand shoved the cushion into place on top of the other one. She fell back at his side, her heart pounding.

  “You’ve got to sit up, Wade.” She stood up on the bed, got behind his head and, with her legs separated by the cushions, bent her knees. Gritting her teeth, she reached under his arms, figuring she had one good chance before he thrashed too much or slugged her, and tugged him long and hard while he yelled. Her heart felt splintered. Only, at the end of it, he w
as mostly upright, his hand limply grabbing at his hair.

  Val felt weak enough to cry, only she didn’t want to take the time, so she took two more pillows stashed on a steamer trunk and wedged them in behind him. His eyes were nearly slits with fatigue. Wiping her shaking hand across her mouth, she opened the windows wide. In the moonlight she could see the bay and the islands, which meant she could see Martin Kelleher when he came. Then she groped her way to the kitchen, where she put on her penlight, and scanned the shelves.

  In one corner was a package of Alka Seltzer, a bottle of Robitussin, four different kinds of vitamins, some aspirin, and two plastic pharmacy bottles—an out-of-date antibiotic and Tylenol with codeine. She shook out two pills, hand pumped some water into a tin coffee cup, then filled a porcelain basin she found, and threw in a cake of soap. Back in the bedroom, Val sat next to him, and set the basin on the floor. “Open your mouth,” she said quietly.

  His voice was soft. “I can do it.”

  Val handed him the pills and the cup. His fingers managed to place the pills just inside his mouth, but his hand shook with the cup so she steadied it with her own. Then she set it down on the floor and went to the old armoire next to the trunk, pulling out what felt like a bath towel, a washcloth, and a shirt. Decker was facing the window, and she could see his chest rise and fall in the moonlight. She took the other things over to where he lay. He didn’t say a word as she eased first one shoulder, then the other, out of the torn shirt and set it on the floor. She wouldn’t touch his collarbone, but she could clean him up and keep him warm and awake until daybreak, when she’d get him to the nearest hospital.

  26

  Setting the basin on the bed, Val looked him over. His right arm had taken a hit when he had thrown up in the boat. So she soaked and soaped the cloth and washed his arm lightly, rinsing, drying, watching her own hands work. The soap was white, the cloth was white, her life was white in the moonlight. The only sounds were the soft rasp of cloth on skin, then the trickle of water back into the basin. Wherever Kelleher was tonight, she no longer feared him. Wherever Peter was, she no longer worried.