The Ice House

by Laura Lee Smith

  “I’m serious,” Johnny said.

  Chemal closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat.

  Johnny put the tray table in front of Chemal up so that the kid could have more room. He nudged Chemal and handed him an airline pillow flat as a potholder. Chemal still hadn’t opened his eyes, but he took the pillow and wordlessly shifted into a sideways scrunch around it. After a few moments, his breathing evened out. Johnny watched him. It was hard to tell whether he was sleeping or not. The captain announced another hour of flight time. Johnny turned back to the window and rubbed a bit at the condensation to clear a view, but there was nothing to see but grayness, and now and then a stream of slipping cold vapor. He leaned his head against the glass and wished for home.

  Nineteen

  On Halloween morning, Roy Grassi woke with the conviction that he wasn’t going to rush today. He just wasn’t. And he didn’t care who got mad about it. Roy had been pulling twelve-hour shifts since Johnny conked out in the men’s room last week, and he was quite frankly sick and tired of being the only one on the payroll who appeared to be paying a lick of attention to what was going on at Bold City Ice. Claire was overwrought about Rosa. Johnny had run off to Scotland. Pauline was—well, Pauline was distracted, put it that way. For his own part, Roy was exhausted. He’d get to the factory when he got there. Maybe mid-morning. Maybe lunchtime. Maybe.

  He got up in the dark and shuffled to the kitchen, where he made a pot of strong coffee. He showered and dressed, then spent a distressing hour on BankofAmerica.com trying to play the monthly chess game of online bill payment. The data usage on Nathan’s cell phone—and the accompanying charges—had skyrocketed this month; what was Nathan doing, anyway, downloading feature films while sitting on the beach? Broadcasting porn? Roy sent Nathan an email. What’s up bro? Hope you’re good. AT&T, man, they suck! Check the bill, they’re killing us! Then he labored over an email to the UF Study Abroad committee to plead a case for letting him submit half of the fee for Ally’s Florence trip this month, and half next month, but after twenty minutes he deleted the email before sending it. Who was he kidding? Why should they cut Ally Grassi any financial slack, when all the other students were probably lining up with fistfuls of cash supplied by white-collar dads who could send their daughters to study fashion design in Florence as easily as if they were sending them to discount surf camp in Jax Beach? Ah, forget it. He logged off the computer.

  He got up reluctantly and went to the kitchen. Exterminators. Termites. Get moving, Roy. On top of everything else, the house was being tented today. The timing! Two weeks ago, he’d discovered a termite infestation in one corner of the ceiling in Ally’s old bedroom. He might not have noticed had he not gone in there to sit on her bed one evening, feeling lonesome for the mess and noise of his daughter. That’s when he found the layer of silvery wings spread across her pillow like phosphorus. The sight startled him at first; it seemed supernatural and significant, and for a few seconds he worried that it was some macabre portent of harm to his daughter. He texted her immediately and held his breath until she replied. Then he settled himself down and called the exterminator.

  He was relieved to find that his house was still covered under the bond he’d purchased along with the mortgage. He was not relieved to find that the only solution to the current infestation would be to tent the house. It was a common enough practice. You could scarcely ride through an older Florida neighborhood these days without seeing a house or two disguised as a circus tent under heavy sheets of industrial vinyl. So he wasn’t worried about the procedure itself; he was only irritated with himself for having forgotten it was scheduled until he arrived home last night to find the reminder card hanging from his front door. Well, damn! So now he had only this morning to prepare, which meant not only bagging up all the food in the house, but also figuring out a place to stay for the night. Because unless he wanted to join the ranks of all the other living things in the house that would soon be belly-up in sulfuryl fluoride, he had to get out.

  He opened all the cabinet doors and utensil drawers, per the exterminator’s instructions. Then he went to work bagging the food. The tenting crew had said they’d be over by noon to begin work, and every morsel of food that Roy planned to be able to eat after the fumigation procedure, plus medicines, had to be collected and stored in special nonpermeable bags that would keep out the pesticides. He opened the pantry. A box of stale cranberry Great Grains, left over from Ally’s last visit: into the trash. Two packets of Zatarain’s jambalaya that would make two perfectly good dinners later in the week: into the fumigant-proof bags. Two bags of Halloween candy that he’d been planning to hand out to trick-or-treaters tonight: These he tossed into his work bag. Maybe he’d give them to the packing crew. Or, if he ended up sleeping at Claire’s tonight, maybe he’d bring them with him. He pictured himself showing up at the door, all Jolly Uncle Roy with bags of candy for the kids.

  Well, let’s think about this, now. Did he really have the nerve to ask Claire if he could sleep there tonight? The busy little jury inside his head was still out on this one. The idea of crashing at her house had occurred to him last evening when he realized he needed to vacate his own place for the fumigation and when he realized that there was no way, given his current financial situation, that he could spend money on a hotel. Just no way. It wasn’t such an outlandish idea, Roy told himself. After all, he’d slept at Claire’s house before—had crashed on the couch twice after a few too many when she’d had some of the ice folks over on a Friday night—but both times were years ago, when her husband Mike was still alive. Still, he’d known Claire for twenty years now; they were old friends. What was the big scandal in asking his old buddy if he could bunk on her couch for eight hours, just catch a few z’s before heading back in to the Ice Capades for another marathon shift?

  The only problem was that he hadn’t asked her yet. Something was slowing him down. He should have texted her last night when the idea first occurred to him. Instead he’d let it simmer in his uneasy brain all night, so now the entire proposition had taken on a weight that was making him anxious in a vaguely hopeful way. All right, get a grip, he said to himself, shaking his head as he tossed a jar of peanut butter into a fumigation bag. Stop making such a big deal of it. Just call her up:

  “Claire?” he’d say. “Can I crash tonight? My house is getting tented.”

  “Sure,” she’d say. “We’ll watch Modern Family.”

  And that would be it. No big deal! Don’t overthink it, Grassi. He’d head over there after work, maybe bring some subs. Ethan liked Firehouse Subs. And he’d have the bags of Halloween candy with him, would toss one to Chase and one to Rosa and watch them fall on them like predators. And he’d maybe have a bottle of wine, too, for Claire. She liked Shiraz. There! It would be perfectly fine. All casual and warm and nothing out of the ordinary at all. Just Uncle Roy camping out, he was like one of the family, after all, what fun!

  He could help Ethan with his algebra, maybe play a round or two of Guitar Hero with Chase. Do something useful—maybe change the cat litter? Tote the recycling bin out to the road? The boys would go trick-or-treating. But not Rosa; she’d say she was too old for such stuff. She’d stay home and hand out candy at the door, and she’d be home, by God, not out with that son of a bitch Vickers; Roy would give her a coded nod (‘Atsa girl, Rosa, he’s not good enough for you), and she’d smile, agreeing. They’d all pile on to the big brown sectional and watch TV and eat subs and candy. Claire and Rosa would fuss at each other about something or other and Ethan and Chase would kick around for a bit like boys do until they all settled down and fell quiet with the hypnosis of the blue screen. Rosa would lean her head on her mother’s shoulder and Claire would play with her hair, just like Roy used to do with Ally. Chase would ask Roy for another piece of candy. There’d be a basket of laundry at Claire’s feet, waiting for folding, but she’d nudge it aside and tuck her feet up under her backside. Roy would refill Claire’s wineglass. Then Claire wo
uld look over at Roy and smile, and it would finally occur to her, just as it had occurred to him so many times: Wouldn’t this be nice, if they could do this all the time? Wouldn’t this just be super?

  Roy finished packing the food and took a walk through the house, looking around to see if anything else needed to be removed before the tenting. There wasn’t much to be concerned with, he decided: a stained microfiber living room set from Rooms to Go, a few cheap art prints on the walls, a stack of unread National Geographics. It looked like a waiting room in a health clinic. He took Ally’s baby pictures off the bookshelf and put those in his work bag. There was a neglected African violet in the kitchen that someone gave Ally after her dance recital last spring. Roy put it on the back porch to spare it from the fumigants, though he was willing to bet it was on its last legs anyway. He returned to the kitchen to find his cell phone buzzing on the counter. It was Claire.

  “Roy, are you planning to come to work today?” she snapped.

  “Good morning to you, too,” he said.

  “No, it’s not a good morning, Roy. Do you know why?”

  “Claire—” he began.

  “Because this place is going to shit and Johnny’s not here and Pauline’s not here and you’re not here and I’m about ready to lose it, Roy. Lose it.” Her voice had taken on an ire he knew quite well, though he was dismayed to hear it directed at him personally, particularly on a morning when there was so much, already, bringing him down.

  “Where’s Pauline?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “She’s not answering her cell. But do you know that Ed from Sales is out there thinking he knows how to fix Dumbo?” she continued. “He’s kicking at the damn thing and I don’t know which one of them is going to win, but I do know that I don’t feel like having to fill out an injury report on that dimwit when he throws out his back beating up an ice machine. Oh, and the bag threader is off track. And there’s water in the catch bin again. And are you going to get here?”

  “Yes,” he replied, his voice a bit more defensive than he’d planned. “I will. Give me a bit. My house is getting tented today. And I’ve got to get it ready.”

  “I mean, I don’t have the nerves today for Ed, Roy.”

  “I’ll be there soon,” he said. He swallowed a bulb of fear and was opening his mouth to say it—Oh, and by the way, can I crash at your place tonight, Claire?—when she cut him off at the pass:

  “I thought I could count on you, Roy.”

  He closed his mouth. All right, now that was just too much, right there. What was that supposed to mean? Just because he took a couple of hours off from work one morning, she was going to turn on him like this, turn one day’s tardiness into some sort of huge assessment of his character? Like it wasn’t even about work at all, like she was personally disappointed in him? His anger flared up before he could contain it.

  “Look, Claire,” he said. “There’s more to my life than Bold City Ice, okay? I got a lot to do. I got other people counting on me for stuff.”

  “Oh, please,” she said, and he realized too late that he’d just pushed a particularly testy button with Claire, who liked to think she had the market cornered on martyrdom. “We’ve all got a lot to do,” she said. “Don’t even start with me on that. And if you’re referring to that Nathan situation? You can dump that load anytime you want to. I’ve been telling you for years that you should.”

  “I know. You’ve been telling me for years to do all sorts of things,” he said. “But guess what, Claire? Today you’re not telling me to do shit.”

  He hung up. And it took a couple of minutes, but when the regret came, it was titanic.

  Twenty

  The plane descended sharply on its approach to Charlotte. Chemal woke up and yawned. Johnny shifted position to pull his bag out from under the seat in front of him. And when the pain showed up this time, it owned him. It sliced through his eyes, pulsed against his eardrums. It was worse than any pain he’d felt yet. He sat back against his seat while the plane landed and was vaguely aware of the tumult of passengers beginning the dance of the overhead baggage retrieval. He dry-swallowed three ibuprofen tablets and started to pray. Finally, they disembarked, and he made it to the chairs outside the gate, then sat down again.

  “You okay, Iceman?” Chemal said. He took Johnny’s bag from him and slung it over his shoulder.

  “Not great,” Johnny managed. “Can you get me some water?”

  Chemal dashed off to a shop and returned with a bottle of water. Johnny took a few deep swallows and put his head back. After a minute, he opened his eyes and looked at Chemal. “Wicked headache,” he said. “Holy shit.”

  “Is it your tumor?” Chemal said. He looked worried.

  “I don’t know,” Johnny said.

  “Dude,” said Chemal. “Don’t, like, die or anything.”

  “I’ll try not to, Chemal.”

  He stood up and waited for the airport to stop spinning. “Let’s go get the connection,” he said. Chemal carried both bags. Johnny put his sunglasses on and kept his eyes trained on the carpet a few feet in front of him. They walked from one concourse to another to find that the connecting flight was not only three hours late, it was also overbooked. The airline was offering vouchers to passengers willing to be bumped. The waiting game had already started, but nobody was stepping up to accept the bump. The voucher was up to $150 each plus a night’s stay at the airport Days Inn. Then $200. Then $250. Johnny found a vinyl seat in a dim corner of the waiting area and closed his eyes.

  “We should just do the voucher dealio,” Chemal said after thirty minutes, when an additional hour’s flight delay was announced. He was looking at Johnny with some concern, and Johnny was surprised that Chemal’s voice had taken on an unexpected maturity.

  “I don’t want to spend the night in Charlotte,” Johnny said.

  “I know, but dude, you look rough. Maybe we should find a doctor.”

  “No. I just want to get home.”

  “Well, okay, but we don’t even know when our plane is going to leave. At the rate we’re going, we’ll be sitting here forever waiting for the flight, and we won’t get back till practically morning anyway. Maybe you need to just sleep it off before you go up in the air again, you know? Get some rest.”

  The kid was right. And what was more, Johnny didn’t have the energy to argue. They stepped up to take the voucher, and Chemal led the way to a shuttle bus that carted them to the Days Inn. On arrival, they found the women working the check-in desk dressed in Halloween costumes. One was a witch. The other was wearing a red shirt and red pants and had a box of laundry detergent affixed to her hat.

  “I don’t get it,” Chemal said.

  “Red,” the woman said, pointing to her clothing, “and TIDE. Get it? Red Tide!”

  Chemal laughed politely but looked at Johnny when the woman turned away and rolled his eyes. Then Chemal’s gaze fell on a sign near the hotel’s lounge, and Johnny was suddenly worried that Chemal was the one who might have a seizure.

  “Get. Out. Of. Town,” Chemal said. “Oh, dude. Oh, dude!!”

  “What?” Johnny said. He took his sunglasses off and squinted toward the lounge.

  “Love Gun!” Chemal said. He started to jump up and down. “LOVE FREAKING GUN!”

  “We’re having a KISS tribute band here tonight,” one of the clerks said. She pointed at the sign. “Love Gun,” it said. “Halloween Only!”

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Chemal said. Neither could Johnny. He gave the clerk the reservation voucher and they made their way up to the room, where he tried to call Pauline’s cell from the room phone but got no answer. He called the house phone on Watchers Island: again, no answer. He left a brief message on the home voicemail about the flight delay, but he couldn’t bring himself to attempt a sound-bite summary of the other headline events of the past couple of days: the car crash, developments with Corran, his own deteriorating condition. He called the factory and caught Rosa, who
told him Pauline had just left to go home. How, Johnny wondered, did anybody ever communicate before cell phones? Two iPhones down, and he and his wife were incommunicado.

  “Roy there?” Johnny said. “Or your mom?”

  “Everyone just went home,” Rosa said. “I was just about to switch the phones over to the answering service when you called.”

  “Do me a favor while you’re driving home?” Johnny said. “Keep trying our house till you get Pauline. Tell her we talked, okay? And that I’m spending the night in Charlotte. Back tomorrow.”

  “You okay, Johnny?” Rosa said.

  “I’m okay, Rosa. You’ll talk to Pauline for me?” She assured him she would.

  Chemal was waving around a room-service brochure. They ordered hamburgers, but Johnny managed only a bite before he fell back onto the bed, exhausted and nauseated. Chemal finished both burgers, then took a shower and paced the room, vacillating between euphoria and concern.

  “I’m, like, worried your brain is blowing up or something,” Chemal said.

  “It’s not,” Johnny said. “Go see Love Gun. If I need you I’ll call the front desk and have them go get you.”

  Chemal gave Johnny one last searching look. “You sure, dude?”

  “I’m sure,” Johnny said. “I just want to get some sleep.”

  Chemal pulled on his KISS Army jacket and bumped out of the room. Johnny stared at the ceiling and listened to the start of the Love Gun concert in the lounge just below the room. He realized that he actually liked KISS. He recognized a few of the songs: “Lick it Up.” “Strutter.” “Detroit Rock City.” After a few moments, the music was making the whole room shake, but Johnny found that if he kept his head perfectly still on the pillow, the pain receded and the vibrations became gentler, almost soothing. He’d just begun to doze when a thought came to him out of nowhere, and it was so startling that he sat straight up in bed. A wave of pain swept upward through his neck and into his head, but he steeled himself against it and tried to think. What was it Corran had said? Here it is, Da. They’re never working alone. And they’re always closer than you think.