Thin Ice

by Marsha Qualey

  I frowned. “I make plenty now. Besides, I bet it takes a vendor’s permit or something.”

  “That’s why we start now,” Kady said. “We do it right: We get in touch with the organizers in each town and apply. You send your portfolio and we send our audition tape. Give them references, pay a vendor’s fee, whatever it takes,”

  “Traveling from town to town,” Jean said. “We’ll be gypsies.”

  I squinted. “You mean geep-seez.”

  “Yahs, geep-seez,” she answered.

  Kady snorted. “What sort of accent is that supposed to be?”

  “Geep-see,” I said.

  “Well, cut it out,” she answered. “Aside from being annoying, I suspect it demeans someone.”

  I turned and looked at Jean, my eyes wide. “And who says I don’t have a mother?”

  She nodded. “Lucky me. I have two.”

  “So what do you say?” Kady asked me.

  I scooped another rose and sucked it off my finger. “I think—”

  “Yahs,” said Jean, “she teenks—”

  Kady flicked an olive pit at her twin.

  “I think it’s the best idea ever.”

  CHAPTER 5

  After eating, we talked and outlined details. The economy of this part of Wisconsin depends on tourists, and every little burg fabricates some reason to throw a town party in the summer, sometimes another one in winter. Lumberjack Days, Miner Days, Muskie Mania, Voyageur Fest. My favorite—Blueberry Bonanza, a three-day celebration right here in Penokee in July.

  “The only question,” said Kady, “is whether we should try to market the hour-long show or the half-hour.

  “Kids can’t sit for long,” Jean argued. “Especially if it’s hot.”

  “They’ll sit for us,” said Kady. “We’re good. And the longer the show, the bigger our fee.”

  “Who books the acts and pays, do you think?” I asked. “Chamber of Commerce? I bet some of those towns are too small to have one.”

  Jean shook her head. “I’m discouraged already. Too many details. We’ll never get it together. Even if we do, they’ll never hire kids.”

  “You’re always so pessimistic,” Kady said.

  “Am not.”

  “Isn’t she?” I was asked.

  I haven’t stayed friends with the two of them by taking sides. I just smiled.

  “Well?” Kady persisted. “Isn’t she?”

  The phone rang and it was a welcome sound. “Whatever she is,” I replied, rising, “she’s your twin.”

  “Geep-see house,” I hissed into the phone. Jean laughed; Kady rolled her eyes.

  A pause on the line, breathing. Then: “Arden?” Male, older, befuddled.

  “Sorry. Yes, this is Arden.”

  “Al Walker.” Al the Cop. Did he want to kiss me again?

  “Arden, are you alone? Do you drive? Never mind, I’ll get you.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “Arden…bad news. Scott…the river…his sled…there’s been an accident.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Scott wasn’t dead, but it took Al a long time to spit that out. Babbling, sputtering, incoherent, the competent cop was hysterical about his friend’s accident. I hung up and turned to Kady and Jean. “My brother’s been hurt. He’s in the hospital in Ashland. It sounds bad.” I turned this way and that, trying to find keys, hat, boots. I managed to bump into Jean, who had started clearing the table. Carrot sticks torpedoed across the kitchen.

  Kady lifted my key chain off its hook by the telephone. “I’ll drive, you worry.”

  Scott was in an ER cubicle. I burst through an opening in the starched curtains, expecting bandages, tubes, blood, doctors.

  My brother was alone, lying under a pile of blankets. His hands were thrust into the air, holding a worn magazine. Sports Illustrated, an old swimsuit issue.

  I sat on the bed, bouncing it. He took a last look at the magazine, then let it drop on his stomach. There was a small solitary bandage just above his eyebrow.

  “How are you? What happened?”

  “Did you bring my clothes?”

  “No. Was I supposed to?”

  A snarly noise climbed out of his throat “Didn’t Al tell you?”

  “He could barely get his name out.”

  Scott nodded. “I guess he was still scared.”

  “He scared me. He was hysterical. Listening to him, I thought you’d bought it.”

  “Almost did.”

  I picked up the magazine and riffled the pages, animating the models. Not a single size eleven. “Almost dead, but you still have the strength to ogle babes.” I dropped the magazine and it slid off the bed onto the floor. “What happened, Scott?”

  A nurse entered the cubicle. I stepped aside as she performed nurse work. “Lookin’ good!” she said finally. “Body temp is up. Other vitals are normal. Another hour or two and I bet we let you out of here.” She turned to me. “Are you the sister?”

  The sister. I nodded.

  “You have a lucky brother.”

  The snarly noise again, then: “She has a stupid brother.”

  The nurse patted Scott’s shoulder and left. Neither of us spoke. Voices from the waiting area filtered in.

  Scott was twenty-nine and balding. A hand-sized patch of pink scalp had extended his forehead. He’s only a few inches taller than me, with the same tree trunk solidity, and the same incongruously long, sinewy fingers. Perfect for an artist. Perfect for a mechanic. Perfect for a surgeon, which was the goal he had been pursuing when he changed his life to take care of me.

  His hand raked the hair surrounding the pink patch, then dropped to the bed. I picked it up and squeezed. “I’ll cook tonight.”

  He was skeptical. “Leftovers?”

  “Anything. What do you want?”

  He nestled down, pulling blankets up to his chin. Ruddy face, tufts of dark hair amid the hospital white. “I want my snowmobile back.”

  CHAPTER 7

  His sled was at the bottom of the Gogebic River, he said, about five miles north of the dam. The Gogebic’s a deep, fast-moving river that flows through Penokee on its way to Lake Superior, forty miles north.

  “I met the guys at Winker’s Tavern. We had a few beers, then decided to head back to town.”

  “Were you drunk? You don’t drink.”

  “Don’t I?” he snapped.

  I stood and crossed my arms. “Then what happened?”

  “One of the guys wanted to follow the river back to town. It’s a lot shorter than the forest trail.”

  “But not as safe,” I said.

  “Obviously not.” He closed his eyes. “We went single file. Al was last, I was right ahead of him. The ice is pretty thick, but the current is strong underneath. I was watching the guys ahead, they were really gunning it. I wanted to, but, geez, I’ve only had the sled two weeks, I wasn’t that sure of what I was doing. And I was feeling the beers, so I thought I’d better take it easy. They were just flying.” He drew up his knees, making a hummock of white flannel. “All of a sudden there was this gap in the ice. Stupid, cautious me—I wasn’t carrying enough speed to get over it. Al passed me then. He just blew over it. I looked at him, looked at the hole, next thing I knew, I was sliding into water.”

  I sat and took his hand.

  The story continued. He caught the edge of the ice—the collision knocking out his breath but tearing him off the machine, which bobbed for a moment before sliding down through the water. He hung on to the edge of the ice, watching it crack further while he felt his bulky suit bubble up, buoying him. “The ice cracked and loosened every time I moved,” Scott said. “I couldn’t haul myself out.” His hands tightened and curled, eyes squeezed closed as he replayed the struggle. “Al looked back and saw it happen. He circled around, got a rope out of his crash kit and pulled me onto the ice. Then he got me out of the wet suit, threw me on the back of his sled, and hauled me to the highway. Flagged down a car, and here I am.”

  Scott
opened his eyes and smiled. “Al was manic—jumping up and down on the highway, screaming, flashing his badge to stop the car…”

  “So you weren’t hurt? Hypothermia, is that why you’re here?”

  “I’m okay. Brush with death, but nothing a few heated blankets didn’t fix.”

  He was the one who nearly froze, but I was numb. Winter water kills. If he’d hit his head or not jumped in time or had been dragged under by the sled or if Al hadn’t thought to look…

  The what ifs? were a terror.

  “Like you said, I nearly bought it.” My brother shook his head, disgusted. “Next time out,” he said, “I pump some speed.”

  Next time?”

  CHAPTER 8

  “No calls. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

  Made sense to me. Come that close to dying, a person probably wanted a little time to let his thoughts gel.

  The phone had been ringing off the hook since we got home from the hospital and I was tired of answering and explaining, so I taped a new message:

  Thanks for calling, Scott is fine. Leave a message, and we’ll get back to you when we have thawed.

  “Or do you think I should I have said defrosted?”

  Scott didn’t find that funny. Just looked at me and made a face. Just lifted his hand in a little blow-off wave. Shut up, Arden.

  All evening we screened the messages. His friends called with advice about getting the sled towed out, my friends called with pleas to know more, Scott’s boss called and told him to take a few days off. The twins’ mom, Mrs. Drummond, called with an offer of food. “I made too much lasagna. I don’t want to bother you, so Jean will just run across and leave it in the breezeway.”

  By ten the messages had dwindled. I was in the kitchen cleaning up when I heard my brother talking on the phone. I automatically tuned out. Over the years we’ve learned to give each other space. In some ways, two people living together have a lot less privacy than a large family like the Drummonds, where so much is going on that a lot goes unnoticed.

  I was feeding potato salad to the disposal when Scott appeared. “I’m going out,” he said.

  “This late?”

  “Yeah, this late.”

  “Where?”

  He made another face, gave another little dismissal with his hand. “Just for an hour. Go to bed, okay? Or study. Don’t you always have a bio test on Mondays?” This was true, and how like him to remember. Only hours after nearly dying in icy water, my brother was checking on my schoolwork.

  “I’m in good shape. Protein synthesis. Easy. Where are you going?” He looked at me hard. We rarely asked that of each other. Usually the information was offered, but seldom requested. I rephrased the question. “Why are you going out, Scott? You should go to bed. Stay inside and stay warm, that’s what the nurse said.”

  His face softened and relaxed. He chewed on his lip. I could see some sort of struggle going on. “I’m going to see my girlfriend.”

  A girlfriend? Well, blow me over. “Huh? Since when?”

  He grinned, pleased with himself, enjoying my surprise. “She was at the party, Arden. I introduced you.”

  Eyes closed, I scanned the party picture. Then I knew. “The tall blonde in the navy sweater. Has to be her because she laughed at your mechanic jokes.”

  He nodded.

  “Name?”

  “Claire Poole.”

  “How old is she? What does she do?”

  “You should have paid attention when you had the chance. I’ll be home by midnight.”

  He slipped into a jacket and left it unzipped. No gloves, no hat. “Won’t you get cold?” I asked.

  He twirled his key ring on his finger and opened the door. “Midnight,” he repeated. Before the door had even closed, I heard him swear, heard something hit the door, heard metal and body crash on the concrete steps. I got there just as he was lifting a covered cake pan out of the snow by the stoop. Lasagna.

  CHAPTER 9

  I don’t know if Scott got home by midnight, but he was there when I left for school the next day. He hadn’t changed, and if I hadn’t seen him go out I would have thought he had never budged from the chair in the living room. Brooding look, tousled hair, rumpled clothing. Must be love.

  “Nice date with the girlfriend?” I asked.

  “Fine,” he whispered.

  “Going to work?”

  He shook his head.

  “Need a blanket? Should I turn up the heat?”

  Shook his head again.

  “I’ll be home right away today,”

  He managed a smile. “Whatever. See you at supper.”

  At school, I expected to be swamped by everyone’s curiosity about my brother’s accident. After all, it was just the sort of news people in this town love: a near death experience involving a snowmobile.

  Old news already, I guess. During the short walk across the parking lot and through the halls to my locker, all I got was:

  “Arden, did you study for bio?”

  “See my new shoes?”

  “Gawd, I slept late. Talk later.”

  “Give this note to Ryan, okay?”

  “Is that a new shirt?”

  No, it wasn’t a new shirt. Bought it old, in fact. Three-fifty at Ragstock over in Duluth. Pearl snaps and black piping to contrast with the red gingham. And of course, the five-inch “Morrie” embroidered in cursive above the breast pocket

  The bio test, fourth hour, was a breeze, but I could tell others were sweating. I finished early and used the extra time to sketch frame designs. My notebooks are filled with them. Some of my best frames have been inspired by the dullness of school. Just before lunch, Mrs. Richter handed out last week’s test. Bio was my best class, and I wasn’t too worried. There it was—big blue A.

  “Nice work, Arden,” she said.

  “Yes,” I answered. “My parents will be so pleased.”

  The teacher paused, then shrugged, letting it pass.

  No big blue A the rest of the day, anywhere. Just an overload of mind-numbing information. The real crippler came at the end of the day during world history when Ms. Penny returned a test D plus. I moaned, and the teacher paused in her determined stroll down the aisle where she was dusting us with test papers.

  “Yes, Arden?”

  “D plus,” I said. “My parents will kill me.”

  She stared evenly. “Old joke, Arden. But you’re right, they would, if they were alive.”

  Ow, she’s a tough one, that Ms. Penny. The instant the bell rang, I was gone, D plus stuffed into my book bag.

  Scott seldom hassled me about grades. He praised the good ones, shrugged over the bad ones. “She knows what’s going on,” he once said to a teacher at conference. “She’ll straighten up when she’s ready.”

  Ready or not, that history grade was lower than I wanted. I didn’t intend to go to the nearby community college. I was meant for the art school down in Minneapolis, or one out East. The old GPA was important. My ticket out of town.

  “Extra credit, Arden,” I ordered myself. “And no workshop tonight until you study.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Scott was still in the chair. Darkness comes early in winter, and I didn’t see him until I switched on the light.

  “Whoa-hello!” I said.

  Dead or alive? His eyes were closed. For a moment I was heated with thoughts about delayed shock, maybe cardiac arrest.

  His eyes rolled open, which was almost as startling as finding his still body in the dark.

  “You scared me!”

  “By sitting here?”

  “Yes, by sitting there. Haven’t you moved all day?”

  “To the bathroom. Kitchen. I had a sandwich.” His eyes closed. “Arden,” he whispered, “if I had died, you’d be okay, wouldn’t you?”

  “No, I wouldn’t. I’d be…it would be awful, Scott. What a crazy thing to say.”

  His thumbs tapped on the chair arm and he looked around. “What I mean is, you don’t really need me.
Things are in order. They have been for years. Christ, I was probably the only twenty-year-old in the history of the world who made out a will. Mom and Dad left plenty of money, the Drummonds are there for you, you’re almost done with school.”

  “Don’t even talk about it, Scott.”

  “If Al hadn’t pulled me out—”

  “He did pull you out. You’re okay, Scott. It was a close one, but nothing really happened. Don’t worry. Everything’s okay.”

  He massaged his forehead. His lips moved.

  “What?” I asked.

  He waved me away. I went to the kitchen to fix a snack. Later, when I thought about it all, I realized he had spoken.

  Barely a whisper, but he’d said, “Everything’s changed.”

  CHAPTER 11

  When it’s only two people living together, things can get pretty intense, so you figure out how to keep some distance. Closing the bedroom door works. I closed mine and attacked my homework. When the powerful growls of my stomach drove me out of the room an hour later, the first thing I saw was Scott, still slumped in his chair and brooding in the dark room. He barely lifted his hand in greeting when I walked in.

  Cheer up already, I thought. I said, “Should we order pizza?”

  He did that little hand flip again, and I must have leaked a snort or a tsk or something because he looked up at me and said, “Back off.” Breathing room. After devouring more of the party leftovers, I went down to the basement. A gift shop in Duluth wanted a batch of mirrors and earring stands and I was behind on the order. I cut molding and glued wood until the dust and fumes threatened to make me loopy. At ten-thirty, when I finally started cleaning up, I heard banging and thumping and voices from the garage. I hoped it wasn’t the girlfriend he was entertaining up there. We both had better manners than that.

  Scott and one of his work buddies were in the garage. Reuben greeted me. “Hey, Arden, you’re an artist, right? Doesn’t this look like a fancy modern art sculpture?”