Lying in each other’s arms, naked in the quilts we’d found, chickens clucking here and there, I knew there had been a bear. I think I’d seen a bear, surely, I wouldn’t have crapped myself if there hadn’t been a bear…but neither of us were hurt. We made love several times, first frantically and then peacefully. I never wanted to get out of bed again. I surely never wanted to leave the cabin again.
“Was that thing real?” I had to ask. “Did that really happen?”
“What do you think?” Art asked back, and he held me until I fell asleep.
* * * *
My first thought on waking up later was not what a peaceful day it was inside, or what a rotten day it was outside, or how good it felt to have Art taking care of things, but how could I not have taken photos of the fucking bear? A real live, full size bear right within my reach, and I didn’t have my camera on me. It figures, doesn’t it? The one time you don’t have your camera, and…I’d probably have hit him with it and then my camera would be broken or eaten. I had only that to console myself with, you know, that and the whole being alive and in love thing. Oh, yes, I was a goner, gone in the land of love like I was fourteen years old and had just seen our new gym teacher. I sure remembered him. And now that I had, where was Art?
Having my chickens to keep me warm was not the same as having my love to keep me warm. But—oh, shit—did he love me? Or was I just a convenience? Who cares? I was going to convince myself that he loved me by convincing him that he loved me. I had guts, too, you know; my name didn’t mean warrior for nothing. All’s fair in love and war, so war is the same thing as love, basically. Or the other way around. I don’t know. I’d just narrowly escaped being eaten by a huge bear. Didn’t I deserve love? Shouldn’t I be waited on hand and foot? One of my ancestors had been a pirate; Drystan the Dire they called him. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Aye, matey.
Just then, a chicken flew over me and dropped what chickens drop on my head, and I—well, you know what I did—squealed like a stuck pig, actually. So now I wanted a shower, but not if I had to go outside to do it.
I had just emptied a jug of water onto my head over the sink. It was ice cold, but at least it should get the chicken poop out of my hair. I could almost find it amusing. I heard steps on the porch, which made my heart stop for a moment, but then there was pounding on the door and Art’s voice.
“It’s me, it’s okay to let me in. Don’t be worried.” And the door opened, and he came in. He looked wonderful, if you liked that kind of bearish, outdoorsy woodsman type, and I found that I certainly did; one in particular.
I dried my hair, and he undid some of the many coats and hats and scarves he had on. He took off his boots and pulled some papers out from under one of his shirts.
“Look what I found back on my snowmobile, which is still one dead mother of a…uh, never mind. Useless piece of shit.”
Art’s cheeks were ruddy and wind-burned. He also had a gun, which he’d tried to hide from my sight, but I saw him set it down behind him. Had he been out looking for the bear? How was I going to keep this crazy man from killing himself? Besides, I didn’t think I could live, figuratively or literally, without him. Not out here, and even if I could leave, I didn’t want to go without him.
“What if all this snow melts, and we can just walk out, warm and toasty?” I asked, sitting down at the table with him. I suppose most stories would say over a hot cup of coffee I’d just made, all domestic like, but I didn’t think there was any. I knew for a fact there wasn’t a coffee shop nearby for me to get any at. I’d never made it in my life. Spoiled much? Yes, why do you ask?
“There’s actually another one brewing over the mountains right now, heading our way. I was lucky to get out and back when I did. I remembered I had maps in the map pocket on my cat. So now we have…all these…” He spread a bunch of stuff out on the table.
I knew a lot about maps as I’d had a job in a county planning office a couple summers during college. I knew more about maps than I wanted to. These, however, although they showed the topography of the area well, were extremely outdated. How did I know that? Easy. The dates were printed in the lower left-hand corner. I don’t think the mountains had moved in the past fifty or so years, but the towns sure had, and the roads most definitely had. There were some thin lines showing logging trails on one map, and on another there were arrows and X’s to mark where some of the many garnet mines were. I wished I’d had more time to explore some of the mines and maybe find a real garnet. I love red stones of any kind. Rubies were my favorite, but garnets would do. They’d make a nice wedding ring stone for…uh…
He was looking at me. “What’s wrong? Don’t these help? True, I haven’t used them in a while, but they show the trails…oh. The old trails I’ve always used. And they’re a lot longer if you’re walking than if you’re riding a machine, especially the way I do. And they don’t show how anything looks now.”
“Except, until my camera batteries run out, I can show you how they look now. Not with snow on top, but just before it started. And, of course, not all 360 degrees around here either, but between the two of us, and the topo, I think we can maybe find a couple of ways worth trying. Except, on foot, and with all this snow, and we’d have to check the distance…”
Art almost jumped across the table and grabbed me. Then he managed to lift me off my chair and envelop me in his huge (bearlike) arms for a huge (crushing, bearlike) hug. “And you pointed out the caves, and they’re still there. If there are any along the path, we could sleep in one as snug as a bear in a…um…ah…well, maybe there’d be a cabin. They might show, too, right?”
Once I was back on my feet and could breathe again (all I wanted to do was go to bed right now, with my bear), I said, “Mighty bear hero can shoot bear! Make bear dead! Bear blankets! Bear meat! Arghhh!” I beat my chest and made a few other gestures, and he got the hint. We retreated to the bed.
Speaking of other stories, afterwards:
After a while, I said, “Or we could just stay here.”
“Well, I’d love that! But…”
“You love my butt? I like yours, too!” Horseplay ensured, among other things.
‘Afterwards’:
“Be serious. There are reasons to leave that may or may not be more important than why we would like to stay. We can still be together, after we leave here, that’s if you want to.” Art blushed as he said this.
The relief that flooded through me made me feel stupid that I had ever worried about him. We can still be together stayed in my mind and in my heart.
Art went on, “The bear could come back. We could—and will—run out of food. The well could freeze up or dry up; we’ve been lucky so far. We do have families and friends and work-mates who will eventually notice we’re not around and worry.”
I had to nod. He was right, of course, though I hated to hear about it, especially the bear.
“We could keep the place warm, that’s not a problem, and we can eat the chickens. I don’t see how they’re going to survive this one way or another. And I have a confession to make. I hope you won’t hate me for it.”
I sat up. “You have a wife and kids back home?”
I could see he wanted to laugh but was fighting it back. “No. This is my cabin, is all. I mean, I don’t own it, but they know I use it enough to keep it for me and charge me rent over and above what people pay for a night or a week.
Bingo. I didn’t care; that wasn’t bad news at all. “Do you happen to have a copy of the plat from the county department? Where this lot is set in the town or county? Because a map like that…”
“I never thought about it. If I do, it’s in the attic. Help me look for it, because I have no clue what it might be like.”
Art gave me a squeeze that left me wanting to stay in bed, if you know what I mean, but I sighed, we put on our clothes, and went back up into the attic. Now that I knew it was sort of his, I looked around with more curiosity.
“Is the ghost yours, too? I mea
n family, or did she come with the cabin?”
I was sitting by the only window, the one I had seen her in before from the woods. Art was digging through piles of boxes and pulling more out from behind piles of wood and other crates and old furnishings, what looked like wood pegged chests, tables, and an old rocker I somehow hadn’t noticed before.
He saw me and smiled. “When I broke up with my last lover, I brought some things out here because I had nowhere else to put them, or myself, for that matter. But it was summer then, so it was no big deal. There were even people in some of the other cabins and in the town itself, what few buildings remain. Here’s the box I was looking for.”
He sat in the rocker and said, “The rocker is mine; the ghost came with the cabin. I’d heard tales that it had one long before I came here, and the few times I’ve seen her I haven’t recognized her.
One of the chickens settled on his lap and then squawked and leaped straight up into the air, fluttered around, and dropped down out the stairwell. I felt a draft from its movements; no, even now that it was gone, I still felt the cold draft. The wind wasn’t howling any louder than before. In fact, it was dead silent. There was a creak from the rocker and then a noise behind me. I turned and started at the window. I was only a few feet away. I knew Art was looking there, too. I saw what I thought must be her, the ghost again, but she ignored me and stared directly at Art. That has to be a reflection, I thought, and glanced around the room, but there was nobody else there but the two of us.
“I came to say goodbye, son, and tell you I will always love you. Dear Arthus, have a good life.”
Art leaped to his feet and dropped the box he was holding. Papers went everywhere. “Mom?” he asked. “Mom? Wait, what…”
One paper stood out from the rest, standing up against his pant leg, almost standing on his foot. It was an 8” x 10” photo, black and white, of a young woman on her wedding day. I picked it up and handed it up to Art.
“This is her,” I said. “That’s who it was. Is this the ghost?”
“I hope not,” Art said, shaking and trying to sit down again without tipping over the chair.
I reached up and steadied him, then got up on my knees to reach him. He stared at the picture, then at the now empty window, and then at me.
“That was my mother. This was taken when she married my dad. What did this mean? Did she…is she…shit. If only I had a phone! If only there was cell service here! She…she…”
I held him as I knelt awkwardly, feeling him shudder. “My dear,” I said, “We’ll get out of here. The hell with more snow or maybe it will melt. We’ll find a way out and home, and we’ll see if your mom is all right. If not, then I promise I’ll be there with you, for whatever has to be done.”
We gathered up the papers and went back down into the main part of the cabin, spreading what we had out on the table with the other maps. Art was too antsy (and useless) to concentrate, so he started fixing something for supper. I pored over the maps, feeling comfortable with what I had learned those summers in college. It was nice to have my brain working again. It was great to feel confident again, too.
“Look, here’s a town only a couple miles south of here called Beartown. Oh, wait, it’s a ghost town, too. And I’m trying to find our cabin out of the many that are shown. I suppose not all of them are. Let’s see the old plat map. Was this even a county back then? Oh, here we are. Shit.”
“What?” Art was next to me and popped something into my mouth. It was ice cold and delicious as it melted on my tongue. “Frozen gin with mint and elderberries,” he said. “I made them myself.”
“If this is your cabin, see this one way over here? Wait, let me plat it onto some of the newer, ha-ha, maps. “Go cook. Wait, if you’re cooking, where did these come from?” I asked as he shoved a coffee cup full of the flavored ice cubes at me.
After a bit and several more tasty frozen gins, I had a thought. “Oh, shit, look!! This map shows the GPS coordinates of the town! And my camera has a built in GPS unit!” I went on examining maps and papers and found an old pencil and took notes and made measurements. I’d save the camera batteries for later, when we’d probably need them more, like halfway to somewhere in another blizzard.
Later, I moved most of the papers aside, and we sat down with plates of stew. Not haggis-type, but real stew. “What’s in here? I recognize the canned vegetables, but what’s the meat?”
“Oh, just something I found outside.”
“Not one of the chickens then?”
“Noooooo, but it did eat one of the chickens I used for bait.”
“I don’t want to know, do I?”
Art snorted. “We’ll have a reveal cake when we get home safe!” After we finished giggling over that, Art said, “And in the meantime, I found these snack cakes. They’re supposed to last up to thirty years but these are only three years old, so they should be fine. We feast!”
Well, if I was going to get food poisoning, my body might as well have its choice of reasons why, so I gorged on them, too.
“I have found three possibles and one tempting way to get us unlost and back to civilization.” Actually, I was a little drunk by now, but we both were, so it averaged out. “The fun way would be down to Beartown because some miner hid his fortune in a flour can, and we could look for it and get rich. But the terrain sucks, Beartown has only ghosts, and we already have ghosts.” I did manage to point the route out on a map. “Over hill, over dale, we will hit the dusty…burp,” I sang. “There are way too many mountains and gullies.
“Now to the east of us, sort of, the way I came, there’s one huge uphill, and then about, um, ten miles to Holdville, give or take another ten, on Route 141 or something. We parked sort of there.” I pointed to a completely empty place on what had been a dirt road. “And then, well, I have to find out if that’s another ghost town or not. Then this way, north northwest sort of, ten miles over bad terrain to Route 200 where there might be traffic. Or might not be. It could be another logging trail. I have yet to figure that out, but maybe you’d know. And let me tell you the last one, south sort of, only about twenty miles to US 90 and the real town of Hammond. I think.”
“Well, I did come in here somehow, so let me think about that. And in the meantime, let’s have some more frozen booze.”
Art is so helpful, not that I was in any shape to care. We were lucky to bank the fire and feed the chickens before passing out.
* * * *
We had blizzard conditions outside in the morning. By the time we were awake enough to realize our hangovers were awful, we went back to bed. Midmorning, we were covered in hungry, but warm, chickens, so we did breakfast, chores, fireplace, you name it. Bear Hero brought in more firewood. He looked like Snow Man Hero by the time he was finished, but he refused to let me help. A sauna would have felt nice, but neither of us wanted to struggle that hard or far to get there. I went back to my maps.
“So just how did you come in here, Art?” I asked. My direction, east, seemed like a poor choice.
Art was thinking. “From…oh, shit! You know where I worked in college, while you were doing your planning and maps shit? I mean, shtick? At a dude ranch north of here. We’d have to travel maybe two days, but there’s a ghost town we would pass through about halfway there, so there might be caves as well. I mean, mines, but we’d have shelter anyway. Any of the buildings left standing would do.”
I went back to my maps, and he started a list of his own.
The snow kept coming down. The chickens went to sleep. I dozed off and smacked my forehead onto the table top. I woke to someone kissing my neck. We took a nap.
The snow was not only coming down but sideways when we woke later. I was awake first and lay and listened to Art snore beside me. I heard snuffling outside, which was amazing considering how loudly the wind was howling. The wind was coming straight, sideways, and turning ninety-degree angles around the corners of the building as far as I could tell. I glanced at the window, as usual seeing onl
y the swirling snow scape and the frost building up on the inside, except this time, the snow outside was brown…and it moved in one piece. The bear; it must be the bear. I could even hear, or thought I could hear, its heavy tread along the boards, in the direction of the door. Was the door locked? Was it bolted? Was it made of cast iron and steel with a concrete back up? I couldn’t speak, I was so scared. Maybe it was PTSD, after all, I was warm and snug inside, and it was outside, right?
I managed to nudge Art and kept nudging until he woke up. He smiled at me so sweetly, but all I could do was gargle something like brroargh. He thought I meant I was cold, I just knew it, but he narrowed his eyes, looked over his shoulder at the door, and leapt off the bed, scattering the damn chickens. Was that it? Could Brer Bear smell the stupid chickens? Or could it smell us? I really, really wanted to go home. And not in a body bag. If there was any of me left.
Art found the rifle and a handgun. I felt useless. Art stepped over toward the door. I felt terrified. Art turned to me and said, “This is my fault. I left the carcass of what we had for dinner outside, and the bear must have come to eat the rest of it. To be honest, it never crossed my mind that a bear would get so hungry he’d eat a sk…well, whatever it was.”
A skunk? We’d eaten skunk for dinner? I wanted to be sick. I wanted to cry, and I wanted to throw rocks at this man. Instead, I started to laugh. Now, normally, laughing in the face of danger is a good, brave thing to do, but I’d started to realize it was just one more expression of one’s feelings, which were not those of humor. It could have come out as screaming. It didn’t.
So when Bear Hero opened the cabin door, I was bent over double on the bed, holding my stomach, hoo-hooing at the top of my lungs. I was able to focus just long enough to see the bear’s expression, his big nose sticking in the door right at the level of the hand gun, and I slammed my eyes shut as the gun fired. There were grunts and groans and thuds and more thuds and another gun shot of some sort. I was buried under the pillows, trying to crawl inside the headboard, still laughing, but now crying as well. It wasn’t easy.
Andrew and Art Page 4
