The Ice House

by Laura Lee Smith

  “You helped me once before,” she said. And she was suddenly sure of it. A wide-faced man with gray hair at the temples. Skin gnarled as oak bark. That day on the roller skates. The men on bicycles. Ford was the one who told Billy to leave her alone. He was the one who stopped his bike and reached out his hand. Come now, Jesus, where you at?

  “Yes, I did,” he said quietly. “And where did that get me?”

  Pauline had no answer. The barred owl seemed to be getting tired. His call was fading through the trees. Pauline was remembering something silly now, and why this piece of information should now present itself in her addled mind she wasn’t sure, but she understood the portent of it. Years ago, there was a craze going around—stereogram 3-D artwork. Images of mountains or spaceships or whatnot, and when you stared at the image long enough a secondary image presented itself. An ascending rocket, say. Or a howling wolf. The secondary information was there all along, you just had to cross your eyes a little bit to see it. Like now. Pauline had spent her whole life glibly sidestepping the fact that her father was a bigoted sociopath. His problem, not mine, she’d always told herself. After all, she’d never gone after anyone with an ax handle, for God’s sake. She’d never called anyone a slur. She’d never discriminated against a job candidate.

  Yes, but what had she done? Enjoyed the money, that’s what. Reveled all her life in the spoils of ice, the empire built on Packy’s cronyism. Money! Comfort! Security! She’d never been without it, had she? Her complicity dissolved forward, an image uncomfortably envisioned through the tight pixels of innocence she’d crafted all her life. She drew her eyes back to Ford’s injured leg and resisted the impulse to look away. The limb was long and misshapen; a web of scar tissue snaked from shin to calf, shiny and taut against the old man’s brown skin. The sins of the father. Roy sat wordlessly next to Pauline in the back of the Prius. Behind them, the security lights on the ice plant flicked erratically alight. Pauline kept her eyes on Ford’s shin until he rolled down the pants leg, and when she looked back at the old man’s face she saw something there she hadn’t expected and was sure she didn’t deserve: forgiveness.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

  “Well, that’s a start,” he said.

  “And I don’t blame you,” she said. “If I were you, I wouldn’t help me, either.”

  Ford nodded. “I’m glad you see my point,” he said.

  The girls came back to the Prius, the bags of candy now empty.

  “Hey, you eating our candy!” Elsa said to her grandfather.

  “Aw, you got plenty,” he said. He helped himself to another chocolate, and then stood up. He turned to Pauline and Roy. “I am eighty-four years old,” Ford said. “And I been out trick-or-treating. And I am tired. Thank you for the candy. You all stay away from that Leonard. Don’t go trying to push a bust. We don’t need no dead people, hear?” Pauline and Roy watched him limp up King Street, Elsa and Beyoncé trailing behind him. The breeze had let them down now; the mosquitoes were reasserting dominance. Pauline slapped at her forearm. She and Roy retreated back into the factory, where now she could hear the clatter of catbirds in the rafters. This again. She’d have to get Johnny to look into it.

  Pauline pitched the empty candy bags into the trash can in the break room. “I’m going home, Roy,” she said. “And I think you should come with me.” He didn’t argue. He fetched his car keys and overnight bag from his office, and they locked up the ice plant. They headed east out of downtown and started the long drive back to the island, Pauline leading and Roy following closely behind. Pauline had a thought to try phoning Johnny again, and she rummaged one-handed in her purse for a moment before remembering she no longer had a phone. These stupid habits we create, she thought. And now I can’t live without a cell phone? It was ludicrous.

  Her eye fell on Bob Logan’s brown napkin clipped on the passenger-side visor. The turnoff on Southside Boulevard was just ahead; she yielded to an impulse and hung a left. It was only five minutes up the road to Packy’s house. She might as well get it over with. She tried to wave a chaotic hand signal out the window of the Prius to tell Roy to go ahead out to the house, but of course he had no idea what she was trying to communicate. He followed, placid and loyal. Oh, well, fine. Let him follow. It would give her a reason to keep things brief.

  The wide streets of Laudonnière were quiet save for a few stray groups of late-night teenage Halloweeners, gangly kids in thrown-together costumes: zombies, clowns, witches. Pauline remembered those days. Too cool to trick-or-treat until the evening wore on and you started thinking about how nice it would be to run around the streets in the dark like a kid again, free candy for the taking. She cut her speed and waited for Roy, who’d been lagging, to catch up behind her.

  Again she twitched futilely for her phone; she would have liked to call Roy, narrate a tour of her childhood neighborhood, even though she was a bit abashed by its affluence. There was the Mosleys’ house—ah, legendary! When Pauline was a kid, old Mrs. Mosley used to give out full-sized Nestlé Crunch bars on Halloween. Kids were widely known to have their parents drive them into Laudonnière from other neighborhoods just to hit the Mosleys’ house. And there was the Andersons’ house—they stubbornly distributed boxes of Sun-Maid Raisins. Famously disappointing; usually avoided. Pauline felt a hungerlike longing for her mother. Twenty years was an awfully long time.

  She turned onto Packy’s street. Here the wide lawns looked like lush blankets in the moonlight, and though the windows of each house flicked LCD-blue, the front porches were hushed and empty. White people sat on back porches. Decks, rather. Screened-in patios. What the hell. She reached her father’s house—a sweeping ranch guarded by the sentry of a half dozen oaks, twin picture windows flanking the double front doors, chalk-white columns supporting the overhang. A damned plantation, Pauline thought. Fucking Tara. This newfound penchant for dropping the F-bomb was proving both useful and satisfying. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck.

  Normally she’d have pulled her car around to the rear of the house and entered through the back door. But with Roy still trailing perplexedly behind her, she parked at the curb in front of Packy’s house, pulled the Starbucks napkin off the visor, and ran back to Roy’s car.

  “Sorry,” she told him through his rolled-down window. “I’ve just got to drop this off for my dad and check in on him real quick. I was trying to tell you to go on to my house.”

  “No biggie,” he said. “I’ll just wait.” He adjusted his glasses and settled himself. There was something quite gallant about Roy, she decided. A prince, really.

  “You want to say hi to him?” she said, seeing an opportunity. With Roy in tow, she could steer the conversation with Packy safely to matters of ice manufacture, a topic Packy never seemed to tire of and the details of which he never seemed to forget. Compressor ratings, they’d prattle about. Screw conveyors. It would save her from the usual go-round with Packy:

  You feeling okay, Daddy?

  Hello, Pauline.

  You need anything?

  No, Pauline.

  Johnny says hi, you remember Johnny?

  Hello, Pauline.

  But Roy shook his head. “You go ahead,” he said. “I don’t want to interfere.”

  She left Roy sitting in his car and walked up the curving brick path to the front door. The landscaping was impeccable: African iris and crotons and head-high hibiscus. Well, it should be. She herself took care of making the payments to the lawn maintenance company out of Packy’s checking account—and to the caregivers, the housekeepers, the nutritionists, the exercise therapists, and the pool guy. The care and keeping of Packy Knight was quite the mighty effort. When he finally passed on, he’d be putting a small army out of work, she sometimes thought. Well, maybe she could refer them all over to Bob Logan’s family. He’d be in need of services soon enough.

  She stood on the front porch and, feeling a little odd, rang the doorbell. Backdoor visits warranted a straight walk-on-in, a knock-knoc
k on the door frame to announce her arrival. But this was the front door. This was different. After a moment, a stooped shadow appeared through the crescent-shaped window at the top of the door, and then the door swung slowly open to reveal her father standing unsteadily in the foyer, his arm curled around an orange bucket of Halloween candy. Packy wore an ice-blue guayabera shirt tucked hectically into loose-fitting Dickies. His white hair was in chaos on one side of his head, combed into impeccable lines on the other. He looked very thin, Pauline thought. Thinner than the last time she’d seen him, which was … when? Two weeks ago, she decided. Maybe three.

  Packy looked at her blankly.

  “Hi, Daddy,” she said. He blinked. He reached into the bucket of candy and clawed around for a moment before coming up with a handful of bite-sized Snickers bars, which he extended toward Pauline. She’d been working herself into a thick anger on the drive over. After Ford’s revelation at the ice plant, she’d considered forcing a come-to-Jesus with her father. I know all about you, she’d say. I know what you did. I’ve always known! But I never confronted you. And now I’m so ashamed. Of the two of us. Only now she didn’t know if she could say the words. Packy’s chin trembled. He took a half-step shuffle toward her, offering the candy.

  There was a movement behind him in the hallway—it was Janine, the night nurse. She maneuvered around Packy and gave Pauline a brief hug.

  “He’s giving out candy to the kids,” she said. “He seems to be enjoying it. You coming in?”

  Pauline hesitated. She looked at her father, who was still standing in the threshold extending the handful of candy to her. Those gnarled knuckles, so familiar, skin taut across bone.

  “Hi, Daddy,” she said again.

  “Boo. What are you?” he said finally.

  “What?”

  “A ghost, a witch, what?”

  Pauline looked down at her clothes—jeans and a simple blue T-shirt.

  “Boo. Boo. Boo,” Packy said. “Trick or treat. Here, honey. Trick or treat. Where’s your friends?” He was pushing the candy toward Pauline’s stomach, craning to see behind her. She took the candy finally, then looked at Janine, who was now gazing at Packy.

  “Oh, my,” Janine said softly to Pauline. “I thought he’d hold on to you and your sister a bit longer.”

  A trio of teenagers in zombie face-paint appeared on the walkway. “Trick or treat,” they intoned. Pauline took a step sideways and the kids jostled onto the porch and thrust their opened pillowcases out toward Packy, who dropped candy in obligingly.

  “Boo. Boo. Boo,” he said to them. “Shee-ut. What are you?”

  Pauline felt a pulsing current begin in her feet and rush quickly up through her chest. It was warm and cold at the same time.

  Free.

  Daddy.

  Free.

  Fuck.

  “I’m not going to stay,” she said quietly to Janine. She gestured out toward Roy’s car at the curb. “One of my coworkers is waiting for me.” Janine nodded. Pauline handed her Bob Logan’s phone number. “That’s some old friend of his,” Pauline said. “I guess you could have him call the guy, if he’s up to it at some point. He seems to remember the past more than the present.”

  The teenagers were mumbling thanks and retreating from the front porch. Packy turned from the door and shuffled through the living room toward the back of the house. Pauline stood at the threshold, watching him. He made it to an enormous leather recliner and dropped into it, parking the bucket of candy on a low table next to the chair. Judge Judy was on the television.

  “You never know,” Janine said. She patted Pauline’s arm. “He might remember you tomorrow. Or next week. Or never again. I’m sorry, sweetie. It’s always hard, the first time it happens.”

  “I guess I didn’t expect it,” Pauline said. “Even though I knew it was coming. Does that make sense?”

  Janine nodded. “We’ll see what happens with Caroline,” she said. “She said she’s coming tomorrow.” She glanced over her shoulder toward Packy, then back at Pauline. “You sure you don’t want to come in? I just made a lemon cake. You know how he likes those. Tell your friend out there to come in.”

  A lemon cake. Served on the Portmeirion stoneware, no doubt. Brought to Packy in his recliner. Cup of fresh decaf at his elbow.

  “What did he eat for dinner?” Pauline said.

  “Chicken and a baked potato. He wanted steak but I told him no—he just had that last night. He always wants steak!” Janine chuckled. “Man’s got champagne taste, doesn’t he?”

  Pauline’s hands were shaking, suddenly, with some combination of emancipation and grief and rage that she intuited would take years to parse. Fine. She had years. She pushed her hands into her pockets. Packy turned back toward the front door and gazed at her tranquilly from the recliner. Ten miles away, in the shadows of Little Silver, there was a good bet Ford was eating lemons for dinner.

  I hate what you did, Pauline thought, staring at her father. I hate who you are. I hate that you left me to fix it.

  She turned abruptly from the doorway. She called a goodbye to Janine from the brick pathway on the way back toward the Prius and gave Roy the thumbs-up to resume their caravan to Watchers Island. He started his car. Her hands were still shaking. She gripped the steering wheel tightly to steady herself and looked up at the house again as the blue flicker of Packy’s television pulsed against the draperies.

  I also love you, she thought. Though I don’t know if I ever told you that, or if I ever will.

  She glanced back to make sure Roy was still with her. Then she motored slowly out of Laudonnière, seared and seduced by a bitter new freedom.

  At home, she set Roy up in the spare room and told him good night. She took a shower and climbed into bed, listening for a while to the sounds of Roy bumping around down the hall. She wondered if the Meehans across the street were getting a good view of Roy’s car parked in the driveway. Husband goes out of town and right away she’s got somebody over there! she imagined them saying. But she was too tired to give a single shit. She pulled General San Jose onto her lap and stroked his ears for a long time, but when the dog stood and started to retch, she sat up straight.

  “What is wrong with you?” she said. She tried to scramble him off the bed and onto the floor, but it was too late. He vomited across Johnny’s pillow and she watched with dismay as the mess trickled down the headboard and into the dark crevice between the mattress and the bed frame. The General looked at her, chagrined. “Oh, for God’s sake,” Pauline said. She thought about just going to sleep in the guest room, but then she remembered Roy was in there. “For the love of Moses,” she muttered. She pulled the duvet cover and the pillowcases off the bed and went down to the kitchen, where she deposited them outside the laundry room door. She went back upstairs with a roll of paper towels and a can of Scrubbing Bubbles. The mattress was too tightly wedged against the bed frame to let her adequately eliminate the trail of vomit. She glared at the General, who was now tucked comfortably on a fuzzy throw draped over the ottoman across the room. She pulled the bed away from the wall and wrestled with the mattress to create a gap wide enough to flick a paper towel around.

  Her eye fell on an object embedded in the tight gap between the edge of the carpet and the wall. The tiniest glitter of something metallic was sparking upward from a tumbleweed of dust and dog hair. She reached down, and when her hand closed around it, she felt something like an electric shock.

  Her wedding ring.

  She pulled it up and looked at it. She took it to the bathroom and rinsed it off. She slid it onto her finger and climbed back into bed. She clenched her hand into a tight fist and felt the familiar but long-absent push of the ring on her fingers.

  Pauline had never thought of herself as a big crier. But recent events had proved her wrong. She hoped Roy couldn’t hear.

  Twenty-Three

  November. Normally the happiest and most hopeful of months in Jacksonville, when the long-reigning heat of the summer
began to stumble, when people rolled their car windows down, pulled out their long-sleeved shirts, started to use their ovens again. Crock-Pots were dug out, porches swept, and browser home pages reset from the National Hurricane Center back to CNN or Fox News, depending. Latte sales skyrocketed. Leftover pumpkins moldered in churchyards and bank parking lots, where young mothers plopped their overalled toddlers into a sea of orange and tried desperately to capture a jaunty autumnal photograph, even as the smell of the rotted pumpkins that had been left too long in the sun in the weeks prior soured the air and stained the blacktop. But no matter—the lots would be cleared in less than a month to make way for Scotch pines and blue spruce, because what else was Thanksgiving weekend for but to put up the Christmas tree?

  But something was wrong this year, Pauline thought. Something was different. It was the first of November and the heat was showing no sign of surrender. Ennui had settled in like a fog, and in fact she’d noticed lately that nobody was even talking about the weather anymore. But then, why should anyone talk about it? Resignation was in the air. Discomfort was the new normal.

  The morning after Halloween she found herself in front of the house, swatting mosquitoes with one hand and dragging the garbage can out to curb with the other. Normally this was Johnny’s job. She’d been peevishly proud of herself for remembering to do it. See? I’m not helpless, she mentally told her husband. My heavens, fifteen steps to the street and she’d already broken a sweat. This heat. It was revolting. She was halfway back to the house when she heard the phone ringing in the kitchen. Johnny! She broke into a jog, but in her haste to get to the kitchen she stumbled on the back step and twisted her ankle something fierce. She yelped in pain but kept moving, hopping on one foot to get to the phone.

  “Hello?” she gasped.

  “Pauline?”

  “Yes, sorry. I twisted my ankle, running to the phone.” She realized she was panting. She tried to steady her breathing. She sat down at the kitchen table and put her foot up on a chair. Lord! It hurt like a bugger!