The log cabin was not large, nor rustic, by any means. Over the course of fifty years amenities such as gas, electric, and indoor plumbing had been added. Upstairs there were two rooms that overlooked the lake and an attic room too low for Mitch to stand in. He used one of the lake view rooms for his bed and the other for a study. The main floor was split between the kitchen and bath on one side and a large room that faced the lake. Mitch had filled the room with a large table and a couch near the fireplace. The large screen porch ran the whole front of the cabin and peered over the lake down a tall embankment fifteen feet away.
Mitch had come into possession of the cabin in a rare circumstance. He became caretaker of the cabin soon after he had moved to the lake ten years ago. Within five years, Mitch had renovated the bathroom, finished the two rooms upstairs, and thinned the long neglected overgrown landscape. The aging owner asked Mitch if he would like to buy the place. Mitch wanted to yet he did not have much money or credit. The owner said he would talk to his accountant to see if he could find a way to make things work. Six months later, a letter from the owner came with a deed of ownership. The letter explained the owner was giving Mitch the cabin and surrounding acre of land. Mitch had been a far better custodian of the property then the owner had ever been. In his aging years, the owner saw no reason to wait to die to be the benefactor of the land.
This was the end to what had been a transient existence for Mitch. Apart from college the five years he had spent at the lake was the longest he had ever spent in one place. Now he had put down real roots. Mitch liked Willow Lake, liked the people of Willow Lake, and the people of Willow Lake liked him.
After putting the groceries away, Mitch grabbed some more grapes then went to the living room. He peered out the large window, through the porch, and onto the lake. There were shanties spread across the ice near the cabin. The ice fishing was good on this side of the lake. Mitch stopped humming, put two more grapes in his mouth, and rubbed his nose with his index finger. He thought that fresh trout would be delicious for dinner and wondered if anyone at the Stone Bar may have some for sale. If any quads were out on the ice, he could go out to a visit shanty and see how the catch was going. Mitch picked up the binoculars he kept on the log he used as a table under the window. The only quad he could see belonged to the Lacroux boys. He had just seen the two in the village so Mitch knew they were just now dropping lines. He would have to wait for the evening after the hockey game. Maybe Abby would want to join him for dinner.
Mitch was silent now and had stopped chewing his grapes. He slowly stretched his head from side to side his eyebrows lifting high. “Maybe Abby would want to join him for dinner,” he iterated in thought. He resumed chewing and reached down to pickup his black lacquered acoustic guitar then spun to his left, landing on his old quilt covered couch. Eyes fixed to the far corner of the room he put his last two grapes in his mouth, chewed slowly, and then swallowed. Mitch tapped out a beat on his guitar and started to hum. He stopped, plucked three strings, tuned the guitar, and started to hum again. Mitch started to play his guitar, improvising words as he went along until he found a melody he liked.
There was no doubt that Mitch was enamored with Abby. Once Mitch found a melody that fit the late morning, the poetry that followed had the designs of his attentions toward her. Mitch was not writing a song so much as an ode to meeting someone that had inspired him for the first time in quite some time. When Abby talked to him, Mitch did not have to pretend to listen. He honestly wanted to hear what she had to say. Mitch wanted to hear what Abby thought about, where she had been, where she was going, what her interests were, and what she was working on. Mitch had known her for less than a week and in the night, before sleep, the only thing he could think about was Abby.
Mitch sang the melody fast and slow for almost an hour before deciding that he was satisfied he knew the bits well enough to play again. Mitch set the guitar down on the couch, stood up, and stretched his arms toward the ceiling. He put another log into the wood stove and went out onto the screen porch.
Mitch closed the door to the cabin behind him. The unheated porch was sheltered with storm windows so not as cold as the outside, still colder than the cabin interior. Mitch could feel the cold through his grey t-shirt covered yellow thermal and through his cotton socks. He found the brisk sensation revitalizing. Curling his fingers like claws, Mitch scratched his scalp with both hands then dropped them onto his waist and scanned the lake, a recurring ritual that Mitch did several times during the day.
Like most everyone else on these waters, the open expanse attracted Mitch.
To meet Mitch, one might not guess he grew up in the city. Mitch appeared as natural to the lake and woods as any of the hunters and fisherman in Willow Lake and could easily be mistaken for someone raised on trout and by shotgun. Mitch’s transition from concrete to woodland appeared seamless because he had embraced the simple life with head and heart in the transcendentalist spirit of Thoreau. He had brought a copy of Walden with him to the lake and that suited him well. Like the house on Walden Pond had been for Thoreau, the cabin was close enough to the village and had just enough of the wilderness to suit Mitch’s needs. Of course, eventually Mitch found out that the simple life was not all that simple and that life on the lake went forward like everywhere else. Still Mitch found a place where he could fit in.
The sun was now high above the lake and Mitch thought best to get a few chores done. He went back into the cabin and put his boots and coat on then went out to the log pile to split wood. Mitch had a couple hours before he would be grabbing his hockey gear and heading into the village and wanted to do whatever he could to pass the time quickly.
* * * * *
Chapter 19
Caroline and Abby shared many memories on the ice. Their mothers loved to skate and often took Caroline and Abby when they were children. Together the two girls had learned spins, first in place, and then camel spins with one leg high in the air. They helped each other make costumes and laced each other’s figure skates. Slung over Abby’s shoulder by the long knotted pink laces were worn white figure skates. Abby recalled the late winter day when she first saw them. Each year her mother would drive the kids across the county to Floyd’s Skate Swap. Floyd’s was an Old Dutch farm in complete disarray. The animals had taken over the premises and roamed freely. Emily would speed most of the way to the swap, determined to get there before they closed at three. Abby, Caroline, and Michael droned the “Sanford and Son” theme song the whole way up the dirt driveway while Emily futilely tried to keep order from the front seat. After lumbering the make shift parking lot to find the driest spot to leave the Volvo, the kids draped last year’s wrecks around their necks and set off running toward the field stone skate swap in the bottom of Floyd’s barn. As potentially embarrassing as this situation could have been for the teens, all the kids in the county participated in the swap. Hundreds of pairs of exhausted black and white figure skates, a good selection of clunky hockey skates, and dozens of strap-on runners with tattered leather ties crowded what used to be the leather tack end of the stable. They were in every size from toddler to adult. The skates the kids brought with them were turned in to Floyd’s freckle faced teenage daughter. Floyd’s daughter sat at a table with a clipboard. She rated the incoming skates as used, still in good condition, and recorded them for a credit so the children could quickly scout out a new pair. Michael wore hockey skates so his selection had more to do with getting the right size versus how many socks molded his foot to the skate. He went right to work. The girl’s choice was a bit more delicate, to them at least, and they inspected each pair of figure skates with persnickety attention. The kids had come to the skate swap late that year and the skates had already been diligently picked through.
Abby found a bright white pair she liked. The skates appeared barely worn however her mother told Abby they were the wrong size and that there was no way she could squeeze into them. Then Emily brought Abby a pair she had found in the back, a pair that was un
ique to the other white figure skates because of the trim. All of the other white figure skates had white piping for trim if there was any trim at all. The white skates that Emily held had thin pink piping for trim. Abby’s eyes went wide. The skates seemed so new. Emily told her that on the way home, she would replace the dull grey laces with pink ones to match the trim. Though the laces had to be replaced a couple times over the years, the skates still fit. The last skates from the last skate swap Abby had been to with her mother. That was the year Emily was diagnosed with cancer. That was the year Abby’s mother had died.
* * * * *
Abby walked over to the green wooden bleachers behind the Stone bar. Caroline would be there waiting for her. The empty outdoor rink at the edge of the fairgrounds sat next to an indoor arena. A teal Zamboni resurfaced the grey blue ice as children crowded the green carpeted benches surrounding the rink. The children showed their eagerness to get back on the ice by fidgeting their knit caps, mittens, coats, snow pants, and skates.
Caroline sat on the bottom bleacher and zipped up Lilly’s purple jacket while Andrew stood on his skates, mitten in his mouth, watching the Zamboni crawl by.
“Thanks for parking the car,” said Caroline. “Herding these kids from the back lot is tedious to say the least.”
“Not a problem,” said Abby. She sat down next to her cousin and removed her boots.
Caroline finished getting Lilly ready and instructed her to stay next to Andrew. He shuffled his skates back and forth ready to go at first sign of release. Abby and Caroline fervently got their skates on to be ready for Andrew to launch. When the Zamboni glided off the back of the rink all of the skaters poured in from the edges in one seemingly orchestrated flow. Abby followed behind Andrew and Lilly onto the ice leaving Caroline to finish lacing her own skates and sort everyone else’s belongings. Caroline would catch up with Abby and the twins when they circled around.
To skate on the ice rink felt fantastic. Abby had worked out her creeks and cobwebs by skating on the lake. On the rink, skating was natural. Her feet effortlessly slid over the ice in unison. Lilly in front of her had the same ease, Andrew looked as though he was working very hard. Abby reached for the twins in vane. The twins scurried away, their little legs walking rapidly at times rather than skating.
The weather was warm for a winter day. The sun was out and the sky was clear. Abby and the kids did not take long to circle the rink. Caroline joined them when they neared the bleachers.
“You must be keeping up in the city,” said Caroline.
“Not as much as you think,” said Abby. “This is great!”
They lapped the rink five times at a leisurely pace before Lilly and Andrew fell back red faced and decided they wanted to hold Abby’s hands. As a group, they lasted two more laps before the twins needed a break. Caroline skated to the bench closest to their bleacher to get the backpack. Abby and her junior entourage, ready to receive apple juice and water, slid in behind her.
Caroline fixed the children’s scarves and hats as they sucked away at the straws of their juice boxes. She arched her eyebrow at Abby, “So did you think about what I said this morning?”
“Listening to my heart, that?” asked Abby.
“Yea that,” said Caroline.
“Actually I have,” said Abby, “ and something occurred to me. Will is holding back on something.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Caroline.
“Because this morning when I saw him talking to mom, he told me he did not have that much to say to her. But, he has been having conversations with that tree everyday since I’ve been here. And he told her a lot more this morning than he is letting on to anyone else.”
“So you think there is something going on, beyond his drinking, because you see him talking to a tree?” asked Caroline.
“Yes, I do, maybe even causing his drinking,” said Abby.
“You know you sound ridiculous.”
“You think it’s ridiculous to think he is confiding in my mother?” asked Abby.
“Not when you put it that way,” Caroline buttoned up Andrew’s top button. “It’s the talking to the tree bit that makes you sound a little paranoid.”
“I see your point,” said Abby, “but there has to be more there.”
“Why does there have to be so much more? He’s old, he’s alone, he drinks,” said Caroline.
“But why start now? Michael has been gone for ten years, Mom for twenty. It doesn’t make sense for him to start drinking heavy now,” said Abby.
“Who said he just started?”
“But Will was never a big drinker. Neither was Mom or your parents,” said Abby.
“Well there is one way to find out,” said Caroline. Caroline shifted her eyes toward the liquor store across the street. To simply go into the only village liquor store and ask them how often Will came in had not occurred to Abby. She could only see the back of the store from the bleachers. Abby imagined walking into the front and hearing something that she did not want to hear.
“We’re overreacting, blowing this all out of proportion,” said Abby. The comment was not really meant for Caroline. Abby was talking herself out of the possibility that she could have missed years of alcohol abuse, denying that any problem could exist with her father.
“You do remember why I called you to begin with?” asked Caroline.
Abby did remember why Caroline had called her in the city asking her to come back to Willow Lake. Will had launched into a tirade with representatives from his hotel account when one of them mentioned that they might change some of the custom work on the new commission. Fortunately, they put Will’s behavior down to he being a passionate artist yet after they left he did not stop. Will went into the Stone bar and tried to stir up a fight. Of course no one would ever fight old Will or for that matter serve him in that state yet he was still too drunk to drive out of there and would not let any one help him. After Bob Jensen took his keys, Will insisted on staying in his truck, and that was when the police had come by. Bob talked the police into calling Caroline to come down to the bar. Bob knew Caroline could keep Will calm and get him home. That pushed Caroline to call Abby to come home. Until then, Caroline too denied the signs that her uncle was ill.
Abby was no longer interested in going back on the ice. Caroline encouraged her to remove her skates, go to the liquor store across the street, and ask about Will. “It will only take you five minutes,” said Caroline. Abby did just that, unlaced her skates, and laced up her boots. Abby sent Caroline and the kids back out on the rink and headed across the street.
* * * * *
Chapter 20
The little bell announced Abby as she left the sunlit street and entered the shadows of the village liquor store. Though Abby had been in this store many times before today her stomach was knotted and the store had an odor that tasted bad on the back of her throat. Dennis was working the register today. He sat on a stool doing a crossword puzzle. A little black and white TV sitting at the end of the counter was turned to an old movie, or the movie was black and white and the TV was color, Abby was not sure. Either way Dennis’s eyes did not leave the puzzle. Like any good counter worker though Dennis was well aware that Abby had come into the store.
“I heard you were back,” said Dennis. “Your Dad said you’re here for a visit.”
“He did, did he? Yea, I’m here for a week or two. Has he been in today?”
“Not yet, I expect him round supper.”
Abby wanted to look like she had come in with a purpose. She paused and looked around the store. She took her hands out of her pockets and picked up a bottle of brandy near the end of the aisle.
“That’s not the one,” said Dennis.
“Excuse me.” Abby looked up at Dennis. His eyes were still fixed on his crossword.
“That’s not the one. That’s not the elixir,” said Dennis. “It’s the one next to it.”
“The elixir?” asked Abby.
“That what he call’s it,
but that’s not the one, he likes the brand next to it.” Dennis pointed the eraser of his pencil to the row of ginger brandy.
“Oh right,” said Abby picking up a bottle of ginger brandy, “here it is, his elixir.” She walked toward the counter examining the bottle.
“I’ll save you some time and grab his wines for you so you don’t have to search them out,” said Dennis. He set down his puzzle and circled around the counter.
“Thanks,” said Abby. This struck her as peculiar that Will had a particular flavor of brandy that Dennis would know to grab and wines as well. Then she remembered, ‘drug of choice’.
“How often do you see my Dad?”
“I work six days a week here now,” said Dennis while he pulled down the wine, “so I guess I see him in here most every day. A couple times a week at least.”
Abby faced away from Dennis when he said this and good thing because her eyes went wide. As Dennis came back around the counter Abby composed herself. “So you see him every day, how long has that been going on?” Abby smiled as if to insinuate that the fellas had been hanging out together.
“Well, lets see,” Dennis paused briefly, Abby thought she might have a date as to when this started, “I started here almost nine years ago, so I guess it’s been at least nine years. Almost every day.”
Abby tasted acid in her mouth, “So you’re old friends?”
“I guess you could say that,” said Dennis, “anything else?”
“No thanks, that’s it,” said Abby, “oh, I almost forgot, don’t tell him that I was in here. I’m making a surprise dinner for him and wanted to make sure I had everything he liked.”
“Our secret,” said Dennis. “It’s nice to see ya.”
Abby could not wait to get out of there. She paid Dennis for the wine and brandy then took the bottles out of the store. Abby stood for a moment on the corner. Surely, Dennis had been exaggerating about Will going in there every day. The wine and brandy could not be consumed that quickly. Maybe Dennis meant every other day, or twice a week, neither mattered. Besides, Abby often had more than a few glasses after work and had effortlessly polished off a bottle in the museum late at night after hours while doing research. That was not an everyday occasion though. Actually last time Abby drank a bottle of wine alone had been quite a while ago. Abby asked herself if Will could really be drinking this much every day.
The Potter's Daughter (Literary Series) Page 8
