Ice Run

by Steve Hamilton

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Look, I know you’re still dealing with what happened to you.”

  “It’s not about that,” she said. “That was a long time ago.”

  “I know, but it’s still there. You told me so yourself.”

  “Just forget about that, okay? Forget I ever told you.”

  “I can’t, Natalie.”

  “Okay, now I’ve got to get off the phone,” she said. “Because I’m going to start crying here. Okay? I’m not going to do that.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Okay.”

  “I’ll talk to you later. Maybe I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Please take care of yourself.”

  “You, too,” I said.

  Then she hung up.

  You, too. That’s all I could say to her. You, too.

  I got up and went outside, because I’d be damned if I was going to sit there feeling sorry for myself. That wasn’t going to happen, not for one single minute.

  You met somebody. You did something good for her. She has her own life, but now it’s going in a different direction. And all that other crap you tell yourself. All that worthless crap.

  You were just fooling yourself, Alex. You should have known better.

  I plowed the road and I chopped some wood. I didn’t feel like going down to the Glasgow, so I just went back inside and had some more pizza. It was cold now. I sat at the table and ate cold pizza with a lukewarm beer.

  The phone rang. For one instant I thought it might be Natalie calling me back, then in the next instant I hated myself for hoping that it was. It turned out to be Leon again.

  “The funeral is day after tomorrow,” he said.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So you should go.”

  “Why?”

  “Alex, are you all right? You sound a little down.”

  “No, I’m okay. I just don’t understand why I should go to Mr. Grant’s funeral.”

  “I’m just thinking,” he said. “This is your best chance to find out more about him. Maybe you’ll even recognize somebody there. At the very least, you can meet his family, tell them how sorry you are. If it goes well, you could even ask them to help you figure out why he thought he knew you.”

  “I don’t think I want to do that.”

  “I’m not telling you to crash the funeral, Alex. I’m just saying, go pay your respects. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said. “Thanks again for your help.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m just fine, Leon. I’m just fine.”

  It started snowing harder. The wind picked up and whistled through the chinks in the walls. I put more wood in the stove.

  The phone rang again. I went through the same routine again, as unavoidable as a reflex. Maybe it’s her. But this time it was a man from downstate, asking me if there was enough snow up here to jump-start the snowmobile season. I told him there sure as hell was. He made a reservation.

  I knew others would come. I’d be busy again. That was good.

  The phone didn’t ring again. I plowed one more time, then I went to bed. I lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind.

  Someday, I thought, that’ll be me. The whole picture came into my head, all at once. I’ll sit at the Glasgow Inn all day. Maybe Jackie will be gone by then. His son will own the place. But I’ll still go down there and nobody will mind, because I won’t be bothering anybody. I’ll sit there and look out the window and think about things that happened a long time ago. Then one night I’ll go outside into the cold, cold air and they won’t find me until the next morning.

  Just like Simon Grant. Frozen stiff in a pile of snow. All alone.

  That’ll be me.

  Chapter Six

  The men from downstate arrived the next day. They must have gotten up at three in the morning to get here so early. There were four of them in two SUVs, with four identical Arctic Cat sleds on the two big trailers. I got them set up in the third cabin and stacked a quarter cord of wood by their front door. Then I went back to my cabin, split another full cord, then plowed the road again.

  I cleaned my cabin within an inch of its life, throwing out food from the refrigerator and picking up old magazines and books. I finally hung those extra shelves I needed. I even cleaned the bathroom.

  It kept snowing lightly all day long. I went out and plowed again, then shoveled the walkways in front of all the cabins. I knew they’d all be occupied before the week was over.

  Finally, I went down to the last cabin site and knocked most of the snow off the blue tarp. I wished like hell I could get back to work rebuilding it. That’s the kind of job I could lose myself in for days at a time. But that would have to wait until springtime.

  When the day was almost over, I went down to Jackie’s place. He slid a cold Canadian my way. I asked for a little something else to go with it. He poured me a shot and watched me knock it back. He didn’t say a word.

  I had dinner by the fire. Vinnie LeBlanc came in and sat down next to me. His ear was still taped up and in the firelight I could see the scar on his cheek, the scar that he would carry for the rest of his life. It made me think about how he had gotten it, and how I had met this woman named Natalie up there, this policewoman from the OPP.

  “You don’t look so good,” he said to me.

  “What else is new?”

  “Things okay with Natalie?”

  “Things aren’t okay. I’m not sure they’re anything at all.”

  He nodded his head. “I’m sorry, Alex.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Jackie brought me another beer and another shot. He stood above me like he was going to say something, but he never did. He put his hand on my shoulder for a moment, then walked away.

  “I’m impressed,” I said to Vinnie. “He didn’t even say, ‘I told you so.’”

  Vinnie didn’t comment on that, or on anything else. That was one of the best things about the man. He didn’t try to make small talk. We sat by the fire and I picked up the Sault Evening News and read the lead story about Simon Grant’s death. Then I turned to the obituary.

  If I had read that obituary a little more carefully, I might have saved myself a hell of a lot of trouble. But I didn’t.

  “I’m going back,” I said, folding up the paper. “I’ll see you later.” I tapped my fist on Vinnie’s head.

  “Calling it a night?” Jackie said as I put my coat on.

  “I’m going to bed,” I said, “right after I go dig out my suit. I’m going to a funeral tomorrow.”

  The next day was cold. There was a bitter wind from the north, the kind of wind that blew the snow into your eyes and knifed its way through your warmest coat. The snowmobilers were up early, tearing up the trails that run along the back of my property. I could hear the whine of the engines as I got up and got dressed. I put my suit on and my gray wool overcoat, which wouldn’t be warm enough, I knew, but you can’t wear a big mackinaw coat over a suit. Not even in the Upper Peninsula.

  St. Mary’s was on Portage Avenue, just a few blocks down from the Ojibway Hotel, and just a few blocks away from where Mr. Grant froze to death, for that matter. I got there around 12:30. The funeral mass would start at one o’clock. I sat in the parking lot with the engine running to stay warm, watching the people go into the church. Everyone kept their heads down against the wind and held their coats tight against their chests.

  At ten after one, I got out of the truck and went into the church. It was an old building made of dark red brick, with a great black spire that was ringed on this day with a hard crust of snow all along the edges. When I got inside, everyone was standing up, reciting the Lord’s Prayer. I slipped into the back pew just as they all sat down.

  There was a closed coffin up front, covered in white lilies. The priest went through the ritual, and everyone seemed to know what was coming and when to respond. It f
inally occurred to me that everyone else in the place had a printed program. I followed along as best as I could, until the priest finally asked who would come up and speak of Simon Grant. There was a long silence, and then one man stood up and made his way slowly to the pulpit.

  He was big, well over six feet tall and pushing 250 pounds. He looked like a former offensive lineman. His necktie was strangling him. He took a few moments to compose himself, then he began to speak. “I just wanna say a few words about Pops,” he said. He went on to describe a long life filled with work and hardship. Growing up as an orphan during the Great Depression, having to act like the man of the house when he was only nine years old, going out every day to shine shoes and run errands or do whatever he could to make a little money for his family. Later joining the navy, and seeing action aboard a carrier in the Pacific. Coming back home and raising a family, working on the docks, back when the Soo Line ran all the way down to the river. Taking his kids out on the water every weekend.

  “Pops loved this place so much,” the man said, “even though the winters got harder and harder for him. He never wanted to move away. He said his heart was here and he wanted to be buried here.”

  The man stopped and looked down at the coffin. “You made us promise, Pops, that we’d never take you away from here. We kept that promise.”

  Another man came up next, a slightly smaller version of the first. He looked a few years younger. He tried to speak but he couldn’t say a single word. His brother held on to the back of his neck and told him it was okay. He walked him back to the first pew and sat down with him.

  Then a woman stood up. She walked up to the pulpit, and as soon as she turned around, I knew who she was. God damn it all, I thought, it’s the woman at the house. Chris Woolsey’s mother.

  She said a few words about her father, about how he was the strongest person she’d ever known. As I listened to her, I felt a little sick to my stomach. I had gone to this woman’s house and asked to talk to her son about something that happened at the Ojibway Hotel.

  The obituary in the newspaper, I thought. It probably listed her as one of the surviving children. Why hadn’t I noticed it? God damn it, I’m such an idiot.

  “It’s a hard day,” she said, looking out at all the people in the pews. “But I’m glad you’re all here. Thank you.” She looked back in my direction. For one instant, it seemed like she was looking right at me. Then she sat down.

  The priest conducted the rest of the funeral mass. As it drew to a close he raised his hands and gave us the blessing. I got up and slipped out the door before anyone else.

  I went back to my truck and got in, firing up the engine and the heater. “Okay, now what?” I said. I watched everybody gather by the church steps. After a couple of minutes, the coffin was brought out the front door, carried by four men. What a cold and bitter day to be doing this. Two were the sons who had stood up during the service, another I didn’t recognize, and the fourth was Chris Woolsey. They carried the coffin down the steps and into the open doors of a hearse.

  I should talk to them, I thought. Just go over to Chris and his mother, tell them I didn’t realize it was Chris’s grandfather.

  The whole family was standing around in the parking lot as they closed the doors to the hearse. People filed past them and hugged them and kissed their faces. I got out of the truck and crossed the parking lot. I’ll tell them how bad I feel, maybe ask them about what had happened if they seem up to it. Maybe they’ll have an answer for me. Yes, Mr. McKnight, he was doing that all the time. These past couple of years, he was always confused. He kept seeing people all over the place and believing that he knew them.

  The biggest son was standing there with his wife, along with two teenage children. Then the other son with his wife, and a young boy hopping up and down in the cold. Mrs. Woolsey was there with the man I hadn’t recognized, one of the pallbearers. It had to be her husband.

  And Chris Woolsey, looking a lot younger without the hotel uniform. His face was bright red from the wind, or the grief of this day, or God knows what else.

  “Pardon me,” I said as I approached them. I wasn’t sure who to talk to first, but Chris was closest, so I stuck out my hand. “Chris,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  He shook my hand, but his mouth was hanging open like he had forgotten how to speak.

  “And Mrs. Woolsey,” I said, quickly moving down the line. “I have to apologize. I just didn’t realize—”

  “You’re the man,” she said, her face calm. “From yesterday.”

  “If I had known,” I said, “of the … I mean, that this was your father, I never would have bothered you.”

  “Mr. McKnight is it?” Her husband stepped forward and shook my hand. “You’re the one who plowed our driveway yesterday?”

  “Yes. As long as I was there, I thought—”

  “I appreciate the gesture,” he said. “It made the day a little easier.”

  “I was at the hotel the other night,” I said. “I saw Mr. Grant. That would be your father-in-law, right?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Let me introduce you to Michael and Marty, Simon Grant’s sons. His daughter, I see you’ve already met. And his grandson.”

  Chris hunched his shoulders against the cold wind and looked down at the ground.

  “I don’t want to keep you,” I said. “I just wanted to offer my condolences. And, well …”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s something else I wanted to ask you about, but it can wait, believe me.”

  “No, no,” Mr. Woolsey said. “Here, come with me.” He turned to the rest of the family and told them to get the cars warmed up. Then he put a hand on my back and steered me toward the side of the parking lot. “It’s so damned cold out here,” he said. “Let’s get out of the wind.”

  “Actually, it’s about Mr. Grant,” I said, walking with him. “Something he said that night. Or rather, something he wrote in a note to me.”

  “Yeah? So maybe you’re thinking one of his sons might be able to answer your questions?” He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket. “Do you smoke?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “And yes, I mean obviously his sons might have a better idea—”

  “You saw how they were in there,” he said. “They’re kind of in a bad way today. Maybe if you tell me what you want to know, I can pass it on.” He took one of his gloves off and tried to shake one cigarette out. “God, could it get a little colder, do you think?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  He looked behind him as he fumbled with the lighter. “I’m feeling a little self-conscious lighting up here, eh? Come on back here a bit.” He took a few more steps toward the back of the building. I hesitated, and as he came back to me, I had just enough time to hear the little alarm bell ringing in my head. He threw the lighter and the cigarettes at my face, and as I reached up to block them he grabbed my arm and swung me around hard. He stuck his leg out in one smooth, practiced move that sent me falling backward onto the hard pavement.

  I tried to roll right through it and back onto my feet, but the other two men were all over me before I even knew what was happening. They came from behind the building—they had obviously sneaked around the other way to meet us. They each grabbed me by one arm and dragged me all the way to the back so that nobody in the world would see what they were about to do to me.

  They didn’t say anything at first. They just went to work on me, methodically pumping their fists into my ribs. I tried to fight back but I didn’t have a chance against three of them at once. They knocked the wind out of me and I started to go down, but they pinned me up against the red brick wall of the church and kept hitting me again and again, in the face now and then back to the body and then to the face until I couldn’t do anything but try to roll myself into a ball, anything to cover myself. That’s when they finally started talking to me.

  “How’s this, tough guy?” one of them said. “Little different than roughing up an old man,
eh?”

  “Stop,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “What are you talking about?”

  I took another blow, then heard a voice that might have been the same or different—it was all just noise now, mixed in with the ringing in my ears. “We were gonna come find you, McKnight. Right after we buried him. Who’da thought you’d actually show up at the fucking funeral?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You’ve got some balls. I’ll say that much.”

  “Stop,” I said. “You’re making a mistake.”

  The voice came closer. “You think we’re making a mistake? That’s a good one.”

  It wasn’t making any sense. I tried to say something else. I tried to breathe.

  “We should kill you,” the voice said. “We should kill you right here.”

  “Take it easy,” another voice said. “Come on, guys. Don’t do something stupid.”

  “We should do it, man. We should kill him and dump him in the river.”

  “Think about what you’re doing, guys. Come on.”

  I felt someone grab me by the shoulders. His voice was hot in my face. “You bother my sister again, or my little brother, or my nephew, or anybody, man. My fucking next-door neighbor, and we will find you and we will fuck you up. You got that, man?”

  The other man stepped in close to me. I ducked and heard him hit the brick wall just above my head. He let out a quick scream of pain and then another man was battering me with uppercuts one after the other, some hitting me in the elbows and others finding their mark until the last one cut me right in half.

  I took one more shot. No protection now. No defense. One more shot and my head was snapping backward until it hit the cold bricks. Then everything turned upside-down.

  “Come on, guys. Look at you. We gotta go bury your father, for God’s sake. You’re messing up your suits now.”

  I heard those last words from somewhere far away. Then there was the sound of snow crunching under heavy footsteps. Then it was just me all by myself, leaning against the red bricks, going down inch by inch, until I finally touched the dead frozen ground.