by J. J. Murray
“She’s … she’s crying,” Bianca said in a small voice. “Vincenzo, let me go to her.”
“No,” Vincenzo said. “We’re still good. As long as she stays on that side of the fence, we’re okay.”
Katharina wiped her eyes. The things I used to take for granted are now luxuries to me. I hope I never take those things for granted again. She smiled at the clouds. Look at me now, Grandma Pearl. Just look at your baby now. I’m the show.
She turned her body to look at what she thought someone looking through the picture window would see. Excellent view of those hills. Pretty. Cold as shit, but pretty. She looked back to her mountains and forest. Just as pretty, and just as cold as shit. But …
She stood, not looking at the house, a woman alone on a snow-swept prairie. Five million and more humiliation, or back to my sorry life …
“That is an amazing view,” Vincenzo said. “Imagine an audience drinking that in.”
Walt grabbed Fish’s arm. “She’s turning. She’s turning around. She’s going back. She’s actually running, too!”
Fish sat back and rubbed his eyes. “That was too close. You think she recognized the Suburban?”
“No way to tell,” Vincenzo said. “It was dark, she had been blindfolded. I hope she didn’t. Let me know when she’s back inside her cabin.”
“Um, wait up,” Bianca said. “She’s really hauling. She’s almost to her cabin. She’s going inside … and coming out with … a granola bar.”
“She’s eating!” Walt cried. “She’s going to work!”
“I’m on my way,” Vincenzo said.
Fish shook his head. “She’s going to get her shelter going today? On only a granola bar? And after what she’s been through? Damn, I wish she had a sister.”
Pietro stepped out of his cabin just in time to see Katharina approaching. “Good morning,” he said.
Katharina nodded and stopped, munching on a granola bar. “How’s your mule?”
“Better,” Pietro said. “I have soup and stew ready.”
Katharina held up the granola bar. “I’m good. Can you save it for my dinner?”
Pietro smiled. “Yes. Better if cooking all day.”
“Good,” Katharina said. “Good. I’m sure I’ll be hungry.” She finished her granola bar and crumpled the wrapper. “I, uh, I better not take the wrapper down there.”
Pietro held out his hand. Katharina put the wrapper in his hand.
“I will bring coffee,” Pietro said.
Katharina started to walk away. “Only if it’s not that sludge you tried to feed me.”
“Maxwell House,” Pietro said. “‘Good to the last drop.’”
Katharina waved.
She’s back, Pietro thought.
And in a small space not too far off the beaten track inside his heart, he realized he had missed her.
And it made him laugh.
Chapter 27
Pietro, Curtis, and Vincenzo watched Katharina at work. She fashioned a broom of sorts out of a leafy branch from a pine tree and swept the snow off the clearing down to the dirt. After several tries with the flint and knife, she started a small fire using birch bark, twigs, and several blocks of peat. Then, she tore the bottom off the hem of her dress and tied together a bundle of small, wet sticks to form a log, setting this bundle on top of the peat.
She’s learning, Pietro thought. Dry wood is life.
She used the flint in an attempt to sharpen her blade, then tore another strip from her dress, tying the blade to a long, straight branch. The first time that she plunged this makeshift digging tool onto her old foundation outline the knife broke free. She tied it on again to the same result.
Notch the branch, Pietro thought in his mind. Wedge the knife inside.
She tried tying the knife on several different ways, removed more strips of cloth from her dress, and eventually shook her head and tried digging just with the knife as before. Her blade pinged into rocks, bounced off hidden stones, and had little if any effect.
You’ve dug down far enough, Pietro thought. Use the rocks you’re prying up as your foundation. Get more rocks from the stream. You have to know houses built with stone foundations last longer! Think, Katharina, think!
Whenever Vincenzo said “Cut,” Pietro took her coffee, which she sipped and handed back without comment.
Then she’d start digging again, wrapping more strips of her dress around her hands to cover her blisters.
Katharina had a lot of blisters.
“She keeps tearing away her dress like that,” Fish said with a smile, “we’ll get an R rating for sure.”
She’d do this until dusk, earning a bowl of soup or stew for her efforts.
She did this every day for the next four weeks.
She said nothing as she worked hard at getting nowhere.
She’d occasionally prop up long branches for walls, only to have them clatter to the ground. She built all day and slept all night, rationing her granola bars and raisins, eating only half-bowls of the soup or stew Pietro made for her. She now collected her own wood for her cabin fires and tended them herself, and sometimes slept in front of the fire. After Pietro left a small box of detergent on her porch, she washed her clothes and Bianca’s “draws” in the tub.
Fish, surprisingly, did not zoom in on these revealing shots.
Katharina gave herself cloth baths, using just enough soap to get a lather going. She took one hot bath a week, making many trips with a pot of hot water to fill the tub.
Fish, with Walt looking over his shoulder, did not film these baths.
Fish was not a happy director of photography.
Vincenzo rarely yelled “Cut” anymore.
Fish rarely said anything witty or risqué. Walt went days without speaking, instead sitting in front of a computer screen and typing.
Bianca could only watch and wonder—and rest all day for the howling and body-slamming to come during the night.
Pietro, though, just couldn’t help himself. All this relative normalcy was boring to him. And at the rate Katharina was not building her shelter, her contract would run out before her first wall stayed put.
I have to piss her off, he realized. She only makes great leaps when she’s angry at someone.
He first tried whistling “London Bridge” whenever he was around her.
That didn’t even earn a scowl, and one time, Katharina whistled along with him.
He left a box full of dominoes in her cabin late one night.
As far as he knew, the dominoes had not even been touched.
He used a stick to “draw” a typical nineteenth-century hut in the snowdrift just outside her cabin, complete with stone foundation, gate, and roof.
Katharina used the snow in the snowdrift to throw snowballs at Curtis.
One morning, Pietro left a small hatchet on her porch for her to step over on her way to the clearing.
The fireworks finally began a few minutes later.
“Yo, Fonzi!” Katharina yelled as she stood in front of Pietro’s cabin. She slashed the air with the hatchet, the box of dominoes under her other arm.
Despite the frigid temperatures, Pietro stepped outside barefoot and wearing only a pair of jeans and a tight T-shirt.
“Is this your hatchet?” she asked.
Pietro played dumb. “No.”
“Liar.” She tossed the dominoes box onto the porch, the wooden box shattering into a hundred pieces.
Pietro noticed that each of the dominoes had been cut in half, most likely by the hatchet Katharina was holding.
She waved the hatchet in the air. “Nice balance, and very sharp. I suppose you want me to use this in some way to build a proper shelter.”
“I do,” Pietro said.
“So you and your cousin don’t have to sit out in the cold and watch my shelter come falling down, falling down?”
“Like the London Bridge.” Pietro smiled. “No. I worry about you.”
“Ah.” She faced Pietr
o’s door and cocked the hatchet behind her. “I’d step aside there, Fonzi. I’m not sure where this is going.”
Pietro didn’t move. “You use. To help.”
“Don’t need it,” Katharina said.
“Is getting colder.” He stuck his hands into his pockets.
“I’m aware of that, probably more than you are.”
Pietro looked down the steep hill. “If you go to stream, you will find large—”
Katharina let the hatchet fly, barely missing Pietro’s right shoulder as it plowed cleanly into his front door. “I don’t need your help.”
Pietro tried to show no surprise. “But your hands, Katharina.”
Katharina held them up in front of her. They were cut up, cracked, and blistered. “I’ll survive.” She stepped away. “Oh, and I won’t be drinking coffee anymore, so don’t bother bringing me any.”
Pietro looked from the hatchet to the person cutting a swath through the snow. The diva is gone, but who is this person?
And why can’t I get her out of my head?
Chapter 28
For the next five days, Katharina woke up whispering, “Today is the day.”
For the next five nights, Katharina went to sleep whispering, “Maybe tomorrow.”
Walt printed out a little slip of paper with the words TODAY IS THE DAY. He taped it to the top of his computer monitor.
Fish noticed and printed out MAYBE TOMORROW and taped it over Walt’s little sign.
Walt wouldn’t speak to Fish for four days.
Pietro spent his days gathering more long, polelike branches from high on the mountains behind his home and having Curtis haul them to a pile in front of his cabin. Katharina walked past these “poles” each day without, it seemed, even glancing at them.
He then stayed up past midnight one night hauling the entire stack by hand to make a pile on the other side of the bridge.
Again, Katharina ignored them as she passed by.
I know what he’s trying to do, Katharina thought as she looked at the poles that would be perfect wood for her walls. But I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. I will get this shelter up today if it kills me. I just need to dig down more, dig down deep. She looked at her nonexistent fingernails, smelled her stank and sweaty body, felt the dull edge of her knife, and heard her stomach rumble.
She was ready.
She sharpened her blade on the flint and began digging and scraping in the dirt. An hour passed. She set down her knife and went to a small pile of her own mostly straight poles, each sharpened at one end. Using a large, flat rock, she used both hands to hammer ten poles into the ground, leaving a little space between them. When she had them all standing for more than a minute without wobbling too badly, she smiled.
Until she looked at the rest of the foundation line and realized she would need more than two hundred poles to finish her walls. There are some just up the hill … Shoot! And what about the cracks, the gaps between the poles? I can’t have the winter winds whistling through my crib! I need to seal them somehow, and it’s so cold that mud is now out of the question.
She looked around her.
I could use snow.
I have plenty of that.
Katharina packed snow in the gaps between the poles, blowing on her hands often. In less than an hour, she had a workable wall that kept the wind at bay.
She smiled.
And then the wind picked up, ruffling what was left of her dress at times up to her neck. The poles swayed and leaned. The first pole fell, and like dominoes, the rest of the poles followed suit. As if on cue, thunder rolled and echoed across the sky, and snow flooded the clearing. Katharina dropped to her knees and wailed, “Why have you forsaken me?”
She dropped her head, and she wept.
“Cut!” Vincenzo cried, running to Katharina. “That was wonderful.”
Katharina’s body shook.
“It was inspiring!” Vincenzo shouted. “The indefatigable spirit of humanity reborn!”
Katharina still wept.
“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? We can pick up again tomorrow. Let Alessandro take you home.”
Katharina looked up. “No.” She wiped her face.
“He has some good ideas for your shelter,” Vincenzo said. “He wants to tell you—”
Katharina stood. “I don’t want or need his help, Sly.”
“It is supposed to be Arctic cold tomorrow,” Vincenzo said. “Very bad wind chills. Perhaps we can try again in a few days.”
Katharina shook her head and trudged up the hill to the bridge. She looked at Pietro’s pile of poles, estimating the pile to contain more than three hundred straight sticks.
Pietro left Curtis in the clearing and walked a few steps behind Katharina, smiling. “You look, um, beautiful today.”
At least his English is improving. “Shut up, Fonzi. I don’t want to hear it today.”
Pietro took two long strides and was beside her. “Is complimento. You are bellezza, beauty.”
Katharina crossed the bridge in front of him. “Look, you’re not fooling me. You’re just saying that so you can gloat. So I didn’t get the shelter built today. So I haven’t gotten it built in a month. So what? You don’t have to rub it in with your sarcasm.”
“Che?”
Katharina wheeled on him at the other end of the bridge. “Che? Che? Learn some damn English, Fonzi.”
Pietro pulled out a well-thumbed Italian-English phrase book. “I try. I use book. So I can talk better. To you.”
Katharina caught her breath. He’s trying so hard … to help me. “Just … just leave me alone. You understood that, didn’t you?”
Pietro acted as if he were reading from the book. “Your, um, hair …”
Katharina stopped and marched up to him. “What about my hair?”
Pietro flipped a few pages and held up one finger. “Is, um, naturale, natural. Is bella, beautiful.”
The man is blind! Katharina thought. It’s in knots, flying out, puffing in all the wrong directions. He looks sincere, but … “Is nappy, is dirty, is gross, is ruined. I should just cut it all off.”
Pietro waved his hands. “No, is … libero. Is free. Like the wind. Goes where it wants to go. Like you. You go where you want to go.”
Katharina’s heart hurt. “I’m not …” I’m not free, am I? I can’t be! “Just leave me alone!”
Pietro watched her storm off, imagining his hands rubbing her nice, toned legs, his tongue licking her tight, trim stomach. Where did that image suddenly come from? I’ve obviously been alone in the woods for too long. “Um, I make manzo stufato for you. Is especial stew.”
Katharina threw up her hands this time. “More stew?” She turned to face him. “Is that all you can cook?”
“Oh no. For here, the stew. I am chef. Stew is good. No buckshot.”
Katharina almost smiled. “Porcupine balls, bear liver, wolves’ nuts, or chipmunk scrotum?”
Pietro mumbled “wolves’ nuts” under his breath as he flipped through the pages.
Katharina turned away and smiled. “What kind of stew is it, Fonzi?”
“Oh. Manzo. Beef.” He sniffed the air. “You can smell. Is cooking. You smell?”
Yes, I smell, and the stew does smell good. “It’s real beef?”
Pietro nodded. “Yes. Beef. Potatoes. Carrots. Onions. I get from store.”
Katharina blinked. “You went to a store?”
“Yes,” Pietro said. “I travel all night. You not eat for days. I take SUV. Go to Rouyn-Noranda. Wait till open. Buy beef, verdura. Come back. Cook for you. You eat.” He hesitantly reached out his hand and touched her arm.
Katharina looked at his massive hand. I don’t have the strength to stop him anymore.
“You are thin, Katharina. You need strength.”
Katharina slowly shook her head. “No,” she whispered.
“Per favore, Katharina. Please.”
She turned her back on him. “No,” she w
hispered again. A vow to myself is a vow I cannot break.
“Please, Katharina. I only think of you.”
Katharina’s eyes misted. “No.” I want to thank him for his extremely nice gesture, but I can’t! “No.”
She left him behind her and passed his cabin, smelling the heavenly stew. She could almost taste it in the air.
“I will save it for you, Katharina,” she heard Pietro say. “I will keep it warm for you.”
Katharina burst into tears. “Whatever, Fonzi.”
She ran the rest of the way to her cabin, falling on her bed and weeping. I should have had one bowl! What’s one bowl going to hurt besides my pride? He drove, what, a couple hours both ways for me? And it took some preparation time, too. All that cutting, chopping, dicing … He looks as if he hasn’t slept in years, but how do you tell with Italians and their dark, mysterious faces? “I will save some for you,” he said. “I will keep it warm for you.”
Her tears subsided, her sobs abated, and in five minutes, she was sound asleep and snoring.
Chapter 29
Katharina woke a few hours later in darkness to the howls of wolves and a pungent aroma drifting in from the other room. She wrapped herself in her comforter and saw a bowl, a soup spoon, a serving spoon, a napkin … and a long-stemmed red rose in a clear glass vase on the table. A silver pot of stew simmered over a glowing amber and red fire.
She knew Pietro had come in weeks before to keep her fire going, she knew he showed more than normal care for her, and she knew he was only thinking of her. She also knew Pietro was a moron, a nice moron, but a moron nonetheless. She had had admirers before, most of them insane, of course, but none of them ever made such a fuss over feeding her and keeping her warm.
She dipped the serving spoon into the stew, blew on the spoon, and tasted it. Damn, that’s good. I have missed salt! She tasted oregano, she tasted garlic, she tasted something like cilantro. Gourmet stew. What a concept. She dipped again and came up with noodles and ground beef, celery and carrots, a piece of a potato. She sniffed the rose and found it fresh, its petals almost purple. She noted that the napkin was linen, not paper, the bowl nice china, not plastic. Even the spoons had nice little filigrees on their handles.
