The Remedy for Love

by Bill Roorbach

  “You’re a masochist,” Danielle said from upstairs, her face and naked square shoulders suddenly in view. The color was back in her cheeks. She’d tugged a big knit hat over her hair, looked at him from under the brim, one of those Rasta caps in the colors of the Jamaican flag. So maybe she was growing dreadlocks, fine.

  “Referring to what?” he said pleasantly.

  “To your masochism,” she said equally.

  He didn’t want to appear to be lurking, but didn’t want to appear to be hurrying, either, in case she had any further tasks she’d like done. If that were masochism and not altruism. Which was the joke he wanted to make. But did not. Because who knew what she was actually talking about. It really was time to get moving, the room and the day a notch darker, then two notches, and still the hope that Alison was coming, that Alison who’d broken their last several dates and hadn’t been home for months was on her way back to Woodchurch.

  Danielle said, “Keep the boots and stuff. You can’t walk out in loafers.”

  “I’ll bring them back, don’t worry.”

  “Don’t bother,” she said. “Really, don’t.”

  Five

  HIS FOOTPRINTS AND every sign of his miniature logging operation were completely obscured. He ducked under the hemlocks to where the path started up the hill. He hadn’t noticed the outhouse right there, though he must have walked past it several times. Solid little building with a blue toilet seat bolted over the single hole, half roll of toilet paper, box of tampons empty, thick soft-cover copy of Anna Karenina, apparently much thumbed, faint stench of shit, which he was something like embarrassed to associate with the young woman. He anointed the depths of the pit with his own urine, only heightening the embarrassed feeling, an intimacy he’d just not ever thought of before in a whole life of using outhouses and wished he hadn’t thought of now.

  Up the very steep hill he climbed, lingering odd feelings, an afternoon of only half-appreciated charity behind him, plodded like making the last steps of a Himalayan ascent, stopping often to be sure he hadn’t left the path, which was increasingly indistinct. The wet snow lay atop the ice from earlier in the week and in the rain boots it was slippery, not only heavy.

  And yet he was full of the surest feeling that this was the night, the long-awaited Alison night, and that his patience had paid off, would pay off, Danielle-for-now’s need and his response amounting to a sign. Of something. Karma being one’s actions. And one’s actions bringing destiny to bear. After Alison left, that time. For example. That time she’d arrived for the monthly visit they’d negotiated as a way to test their separation over the course of a year. The second monthly visit, after a very bad first one. Yes, that second one made a good comparison. She’d arrived early with her bike on the rack at the back of her sensible car, greeted him all bright and lively, a particular vivid mood of hers that he hadn’t seen in years. “Rumble Pond!” she’d announced.

  Rumble Pond was a full-gear outing: saddlebags, food, sleeping bags, bike parts, tent. They pedaled side by side right out of the neighborhood and out of town and up Dairyman Hill Road four stiff miles to the log-company gate and then on gravel onward, then no gravel, mountain biking on an actual mountain, the gorgeous little lake at the end of the ride, the hot swim, the isolated campsite. And he hadn’t seen that game look on her face for years, not since the time he’d just shaved after work and she liked his smooth chin so much that she pushed him to their bedroom, fucked him hard (unheard of!), came to quick climax (unprecedented!), and bit that smooth chin (drawing blood!), just that one time, ancient history.

  At Rumble Pond they’d made dinner excitedly working together, not like people who were separated but like the old kitchen team they’d been in the first flush of their romance. And after they’d eaten, well, instead of cleaning it all up right away they made love, first time in at least months, and the second-best time ever, as he thought about it, and he would think about it lots. She started it—kisses of unfamiliar depth, at last an acceptance of his real kisses and not the kisses he’d developed for her overly peckish tastes. And actual giggling and the ripping of his shirt buttons, okay? And a tumble on top of un-deployed sleeping bags and then upon the tent, complete inadvertent disassembly of the poor little thing. And her skin in the moonlight, unforgettable, as if it had grown soft in his absence.

  They stayed up there that way three days, bike excursions east and west and north, a honeymoon like they hadn’t let themselves have in Prague (that she hadn’t let them have), stayed past their food, an extra day, giddy on the way back out with fasting and promises. Give her a month, is all she asked. They felt they’d solved the puzzle of their fractured marriage, one of those long algorithms from college math.

  Tonight would be like those nights!

  He felt a moral tug. Danielle had food. Danielle had shelter. She had firewood, now. But Danielle was alone, and with an injury, and very likely unstable. A small accident would be amplified. What if she burned herself or fell from her loft? He certainly knew of dozens of such cases, small-town law. That little girl who’d cooked to death in the back of her parents’ van parked outside the Sugarwood Grille, hot August afternoon? Or poor Kurt LaFarge, who fell on the North Church steps in the snow one Saturday night, last man out after choir, broke his neck and froze solid, ambulance and police and sheriff and medical examiner still there as the parishioners arrived the next morning. Pastor Tony paid for that one, and unfairly: gross negligence. Eric might have done more for the girl, was the point. Danielle would need more water, for example. Or did ghosts never drink?

  He trudged, made the road, crossed to the veterinary parking lot, climbed in his car and started it, sat a few minutes catching his breath. Really, that was a very hard climb in these conditions. His own pants legs were soaked, but the boots had kept his socks dry. The veterinarian—a crabbed old soul when it came to humans and a well-known killer of show dogs—looked out her window at him, the longest look, no expression on her face. He gave a short wave, and she disappeared behind the curtain so fast that he felt like a magician.

  Findings: Ms. Danielle would be alone down there for several days. A life on Doritos and ramen noodles. At least she had wine. A blizzard called for a box of wine, simple as that, no need to judge. Alison was probably on her way, should really be on her way if she was going to make it. And then—no doubt she’d thought of this—maybe she’d be snowed in and he’d get to make her breakfast after all, maybe a few days of breakfasts, if the Weather Channel was right. Unbidden, a certain bra came to mind, gray satin. From back in the day. He felt his hand upon its clasp. He checked his phone. No calls, no texts, no tweets, no e-mails, not a word on Facebook, not from Alison anyway, not a peep from Alison, who’d done nothing but stand him up for months, if he admitted it. He stifled a wave of anger, checked Troy Polamalu’s game stats one more time: fantasy football. Then the weather: the Winter Storm Warning had been upgraded to a Winter Storm Emergency. He’d never seen that designation. And a link to a checklist for disaster preparedness.

  There was about an hour before the day would get swallowed by the storm and he was wet anyway and there was this terrible sense of responsibility, also the food he’d bought: she’d need everything she could get, and he had all he needed: Alison wasn’t going to show, third month in a row, and who was he kidding? Fourth in a row. He was no masochist. He heard his father’s voice: face facts. The snow was building, building. No more cars coming in and out of the veterinarian’s lot, just the Mercedes with the SPAY plates. No cars on the road, either.

  He retrieved his bags of groceries, left the expensive wine in, why not? He had beer at home. Plenty of daylight. The snarly old poodle of a vet was spying on him again, glowering out the window at him. He’d won the case for his client, that’s all, had never thought twice about continuing to bring his dog to Dr. Mia Arnold, but then he hadn’t needed to: poor Ribbie, living now with Alison down in Portland, another stab of anger.

  A lot of anger, Alison had said s
ometimes, no matter how justifiably pissed he was. “A lot of anger, Eric.” Heavy on the K sound in his name. Had he been angry on their bike trip? He had not. Had she returned? She had not. The bags were heavy, but not as heavy as Danielle’s had been, and only two of them. More awkward, though: paper. He arranged them in the crook of one arm so as to have a hand free. His own footprints from a mere three minutes previous were already filled in, but no question where the path was through the roadside meadow. The forest, however, was decidedly darker, the balsam firs beyond the stone wall drooping with snow, the branches starting to block the path. He enjoyed tugging on them, watching the snow dump, the branches springing back skyward. This would be a place to come mushrooming in the spring, and warbler walking. It would be a lot of things in spring that it was not now. He and Alison could come here together: she’d always liked to explore vernal pools. She’d bend deeply from the waist—all that yoga—and examine the loops of frog eggs. She’d flip leaves uncannily and find a fire newt every time. She’d have zero compassion for Danielle, or less.

  The pitch of the slope seemed steeper and the rain boots more hopeless and he slid and slipped his way down, proud of his balance, almost skiing at times, groceries at risk. The last stretch of the path coming down from high above the river and past the outhouse was difficult—the wind and snow hard in his face, ice underfoot. The hemlock branches, heavy with wet snow, were already brushing the ground, no obvious entry to the shelter they’d provided earlier. He skirted them, stinging snow in his face, ducked to the cabin and up the stone steps, hurried to push the door open and escape the pelting, a loud halloo so as not to frighten the young woman.

  He failed at that:

  “Hey,” she cried. “Hey!” Then, “What the fuck, yo, get out!” She’d pulled the big slipper tub up practically touching the stove and stood in it, her naked butt pinkened from a scrubbing; anyway, she was in the act of dipping her washcloth into the pot of water she’d put on, and her legs were long and bare and awfully hairy and dripping, a patter of metallic beats from the copper tub, like a shower of pennies.

  He turned away mortified. “Oh, my god, sorry! I just brought you this stuff. You’ll need more food. And there’s good wine. From the store. For you. If you want.”

  Danielle had a tattered robe instead of a towel, but at least she had that. She wrapped herself up in it. “You just come crashing in?”

  “It’s so windy, I . . .”

  She climbed out of the tub in her pink-gray robe and marched toward him, sharp little fist at the ready. “Out!” she cried. “Get out!” And then she was pummeling him as best she could, one hand holding the robe, knuckles in his sternum between the grocery bags, which he didn’t want to drop. He tried not to smile, blocked her hand between the bags. “Help!” she cried, pulling it back, punching at him wildly, little knuckles ripping the heavier of the bags.

  He crouched to save the wine as the bag tore open, dropped the other bag in the process, cheese and scallions and peppers tumbling out. She took the opportunity to pop him in the chin a good one, even as the next wine bottles hit the floor clanking against each other, rolling away across the floor. He said, “Hey, okay, easy. I just thought you could use some more food.”

  And she popped him again, kicked at him. “You didn’t think! You didn’t think at all! Jimmy! Help!”

  Jimmy? He fumbled on, the rest of the groceries hitting the floor, perfect mango splitting. He said, “That’s raw-milk Parmesan. It’s delicious, the real thing. I thought you’d like to have it. And some basics? That’s excellent flour.”

  She kicked the bag, a puff of white.

  “And all sorts of vegetables.”

  She tried to stomp the first eggplant, but it rolled under her bad foot and sent her off balance. She fell hard, clutching her robe tighter then diving at Eric from a mad crouch, catching a pocket of his jacket, which ripped half off. “Get out! Basics and all! Get the fuck out! You’re so nicey-nice, you fucking . . . creeper, with your creeper gifts.”

  Suddenly she softened, maybe at the sound of the word gifts as it flew from her lips, maybe at the realization that she’d ripped his clothes, maybe noticing that he really had brought food, food she really needed. Stiffly then, not exactly contrite, she said, “You’re crashing in here and grinning at me like a wolf and it really, really freaks me out.” She was back to shouting: “You have to understand. Please, just go. And quit smiling.”

  Okay, he really was grinning. He killed it, said, “You were in a private moment. I’m very sorry.”

  She blew up, jumped to her feet, jabbed a finger in his chest, backed him toward the door: “All-moments-are-fucking-private!”

  Eric backed away, step-by-step and to the heavy front door, defending himself with his hands, the young woman poking at him all the way, trying to get at his face. He yanked the door open to wind and snow, said, “I hope you have a corkscrew down here. That’s nice wine.”

  “Go!” she shrieked, and pushed him by the chest.

  He stumbled down the stone steps, fell into the snow at the bottom.

  “I said go the fuck away!”

  Six

  OUTSIDE THE STORM was howling, a different kind of snow altogether, curtains of it blowing, already drifted to knee-deep in sculpted ridges along the ground, coming so thick and furious it was as if legions of dump trucks were emptying their loads in his face, in the world’s face, misery: the jostling wind, the river coursing black below.

  He pushed his way through hemlock branches and into their protection—a Mongolian hut of a cavern under there, still the ground bare and soft, cracks of muted light all around him. He barged through and back into the wind at the end of the line, the end of the cabin’s little dooryard, but reluctantly: his socks inside the rain boots were no longer dry, squishing in fact, and the going was more slippery than ever, nothing for a path but slight depressions where his footprints had been only short minutes before. Still, he felt a lightness: he’d given away Alison’s dinner, which amounted to giving up on her, admitting she wasn’t coming home, never again.

  He slipped on hidden ice—it was all ice underneath—dropped to his knees, the snow immediately wet through his pants. If this weren’t such a short hike he’d be in real danger. No great loss, those groceries. Plenty of food at his house, in case Alison did turn up. Plenty more wine. Cases of good beer. He’d watch whatever movie and eat chicken-barley soup. He made good soup and froze it in batches. He put his head down and trudged. The dark was like an eclipse, sudden and thorough. One foot in front of the next, that was all you could do. He bumped up against a tree trunk, a really impressive yellow birch. Close by was another. A hundred years back, there would have been a barn here—yes, a large depression in the earth, great location over the river, when all of this would have been fields and farmsteads and pasture.

  Fine, but the birches and the basement hole had not been on the path before. He followed his footfalls back—less than a minute old and already smoothed, as if each print were the basement of an old barn, nature closing in. He hurried, suddenly afraid, followed his tracks back all the way to the hemlocks near the outhouse, started back up the hill, paying close attention this time, allowing no stray thoughts. He saw immediately where he’d gone wrong: the branches of a white pine pressed down and covered the faint path. The radio had said record falls. But three inches an hour? He’d have to look at the Weather Channel when he got home.

  With great attention he made his way up the long hill and to the road, which was still unplowed, the sky much lighter out of the woods, like a weight lifted off him. No car had passed recently, and no plow. The lights were off at the veterinary. The Mercedes was gone. And so was his Explorer.

  He looked again and then looked all around, as if perhaps he’d parked somewhere else, somewhere he’d entirely forgotten. But, in the end he had to admit it: the car was gone. Already, efficient lawyer, he was rehearsing the phone call to Galvin’s Towing. He fingered the keys in his pants pocket, reached fo
r his phone. Which was missing. Or not missing, not at all. He knew exactly where his phone was: his phone had been towed with the car. His sports jacket was soaked through, snow from the outside, sweat from the inside, pocket pulled half off. It was four or five or more miles to town, an hour and a half at a brisk walking gait on a bright summer’s day, so make it three hours in the heavy snow already on the road, face into the increasing wind, the new fresh snow blowing in devils all around him. No houses in sight. Only the veterinarian’s buildings, closed up tight, even the dog kennels quiet, built out here in the boonies where the barking could bother no one, the boarded dogs locked in for the night, maybe some comfort in there, if he could break in. No, no: the vet had had to shut down the kennel after the lawsuit, a requirement of the settlement. Bitch had had him towed; he’d sleep on her desk! But no. He wasn’t going in that place, not for anything.

  No way around it, he trudged in the increasing cold for ten minutes, remembering houses around the big sweeping curve ahead. No lights in sight. Not a blink of light. Power must be down; it was always going down on these country roads. Around the curve was only one house, as it turned out, an old farmstead, faint light in the windows. Eric hurried up the long driveway and to the red-painted door. An elderly man answered, flashlight in hand, ready to use it as a club if this were death come knocking.

  “Sasquatch?” the old man said, comedian. He was the ancient guy from Woodchurch Feed and Lumber, retired.

  “Jack, I need to use your phone,” Eric said, coming up with the name heroically.