Road to Thunder Hill

by Connie Barnes Rose

  “You mean they made it that way on purpose?” Rena says.

  Olive laughs. “Actually, I made it that way on purpose. Shall I tell you how it’s done?”

  “I’m way more interested in knowing why it’s done.”

  “Why it’s done?” asks Olive.

  “Yeah. Why would anyone want a perfectly good bowl to look all burnt?”

  I try not to smirk. Olive is always going on about her bloody raku pieces.

  “Excellent question!” says Olive. “But I warn you, don’t get me going on the aesthetics of raku.”

  Time for me to jump in. I lean over to Blueberry Eyes, the one the others have called John, and I say, “I hear the storm is especially bad down Newville way.”

  He pulls his gaze away from Olive’s bowl. “It’s pretty bad all over. This is the worst sucker I’ve ever seen in April.”

  “No kidding,” I say. “My husband is stuck down in Newville.”

  He grins. “No shit! My wife is stuck in the city.”

  “Hey, it’s like God created this storm just for you two!” the pouchy-faced guy nudges Billy Bob.

  I can’t believe I’m blushing. I’m quite used to getting teased by Danny and Bear, but having Blueberry Eyes, I mean, John, acting like he’s checking me out is making me resist the urge to run my fingers through my hair, which Alana once told me was a blatant sexual signal. Stop it, I tell myself. I likely remind him of his mother or something. But when I sneak a peek at him his eyes squarely meet my own.

  “You make a lot of these bowls on purpose?” Rena is asking.

  Olive suddenly pushes her chair back causing the sleeping dogs to raise their heads from where they are sprawled all over the kitchen floor. “Come with me, all of you. I’ll show you my pottery room. Come!”

  “I’ll wait here,” I say, and quickly add, “and clean up.”

  “I think I’ll stay here too,” says John. “Where it’s warm.”

  Olive’s shoes are already clumping up the back stairs, leaving Rena and the two linemen no choice but to pad up after her in their stocking feet. They are followed by the twins and the pups. As usual, Suzie stays right where I am.

  “Watch your heads,” Olive calls back as the men duck their heads under the doorway. “Men are a lot taller today than they were a hundred years ago.”

  This means I am left alone, alone with what I’ve decided is a fine specimen of a man indeed. Barely thirty I’d say, and looking hard as rock. Did I just run my tongue over my lips? What the hell is going on with you, Trish? It’s like you’re in frigging heat.

  “It’s the dampness out there that gets to you,” he says, rubbing his hands over the stovetop.

  “I know what you mean,” I say, sitting up taller in my chair. “I hate feeling chilled.”

  He looks up at the ceiling. “Noisy bunch up there.”

  I roll my eyes and nod. I can tell exactly where the tour is by where the footsteps are over our heads. They have passed my room and the bathroom next to it and are lingering long enough to admire the clawfoot bathtub that Olive had placed right in the middle of the floor.

  I know this tour well. A marble statue of a nude couple locked in an embrace — a gift to Olive from Arthur — stands in one corner of their bedroom. Engraved upon a bronze plate are the words of some poet named Robert Herrick: “Thou art my life, my love, my heart, / the very eyes of me: / And hast command of every part, / To live and die for thee.” Olive will say something like, “My husband had this inscribed for me. His is the most romantic soul.”

  I bet those linemen are starting to wonder what they’re in for with this tour.

  “Do you all live here in this house?” John asks me.

  “No, I got stranded here because of the storm,” I say. “I’m staying in the room right at the top of these stairs.”

  “Oh.” He nods.

  “Yes,” I say this firmly, pointedly. I decide to clear the dishes and in the process manage to knock a soup spoon off the table. We reach down at the same time and bump shoulders. Then I manage to spill some leftover milk onto one of his feet. “Sorry.”

  “Not nearly as sorry as I am.” He laughs and takes off his sock.

  “You would have been safer taking the tour,” I say, slinging his sock over the drying pole. “You’ll want to wash this when you get home. Otherwise it will stink like, like…”

  I watch him knead his bare foot, especially the way his thumbs press into the flesh of a smooth arch.

  “Like sour milk?”

  “Exactly.” I rub my hands up and down the sides of my jeans because I’m imagining how his hands might feel on my body, and that song “if you can’t be with the one you love…” starts playing in my head because here I am, stuck in a storm, with no mate for a hundred miles and who knew if I had any mate left at all? Right now, right before my eyes is this very cute stranger who seems to like my company and, judging by the way he’s looking at me, might like something more.

  I listen to the clumping upstairs. They’re likely in the big front hallway where Olive will be pointing to her paintings hanging along the wall. She’ll be saying something like, “They’re not very good. That’s why I hung them up here.”

  “Not good?” One of them will likely say. “I think they’re pretty damned great, if you ask me.”

  And on it will go. She’ll show them all the pieces of raku that she has stored in one of the spare rooms. The trick with raku, she will tell them, is precision. The fire has to be at exactly the right temperature when you place the pottery directly into the flames. Then, using four-foot tongs, you carefully extract the piece and lower it into a barrel of sawdust. This process results in the burned and cracked effect in the bowl they saw on the table downstairs. She’ll be telling them all of this while I’m leading John upstairs to my little room. If the tour continues as usual, I figure we’ll have about fifteen minutes to … to … what’s that he’s saying now?

  It seems that John has two children. He has just pulled their pictures from his wallet and is leaning close to show them to me. I like his smell. “Your kids are so sweet,” I tell him, thinking how sweet he’d look on his back with his shirt undone and my fingers running down what looks from here to be a smooth and well defined chest. I’m betting he has dark silky hairs running down his belly. It’s getting pretty hot here in Olive’s kitchen. Maybe now is a good time to suggest we join the tour. We could go by way of the back stairs, by way of my old bedroom. I’ll say something about filling in the part of the tour he missed, like my iron bedstead that’s over a hundred years old. In mere minutes I might find myself holding onto the bars of the headboard while John kneads my breasts. I think he may have just asked me a question.

  “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

  “I asked if you have any kids.”

  My voice comes out in a croak. “One daughter.”

  “How old?”

  “Oh, a little older than yours. Hey, do you want me to give you a tour up upstairs too?” I take a deep breath, and I can’t believe I’m saying this but here it is: “I could show you where I sleep.”

  He looks at me for what seems like a long moment. Then he rubs his hands together and says it’s likely pretty cold up there away from the heat. Then he starts talking about his wife, Crissy, who is a hairdresser, a colourist to be exact, and if I’m ever down their way I should get my hair coloured by her. She is part owner of the salon, he says proudly, and the name of it is indeed, “Crissy’s.” In fact, he’ll make sure all three of us women get freebies for feeding him and his buddies today.

  How to react? With as much dignity as I can muster. I tell him I’ll certainly go to Crissy’s, if I ever feel the need to colour my hair.

  By now, the upstairs tour will have moved to the front stairway and down to the landing. Olive will introduce th
e group to her giant mural: a swirl of dark colours fall inward to what looks like a campfire.

  “I call this painting, ‘My Passion Well’,” I hear Olive say. “But it’s the only one I’ll bring even part way down the stairs.”

  “You should bring them all downstairs,” one of the men says. “I may not know art, but I know what I like and these are really good.”

  I hear Rena saying, “Maybe she wants to keep them for herself.”

  “You know, Rena, that is very astute of you. I suspect my family has become quite attached to seeing my paintings in the private part of their home.”

  “But you still let a bunch of strangers tramp through the private parts of your house.”

  “I’ve never minded showing my artwork to people who appreciate it.”

  “I used to feel the same way,” Rena is saying as they come into the kitchen.

  “Oh? About art?”

  “No, about my private parts,” Rena suddenly cackles, and gives Olive a solid punch on the shoulder.

  One thing about Olive, I discover right here on the spot, is that she’s not all that predictable. Like here I was expecting Olive to shy away from Rena like she was some sort of vermin. Or that she’d move to cover the twins’ ears as they follow the linemen back into kitchen. But no, she starts up with her own brand of laugh, which amounts to a whole lot of snorts through her nose. And that, combined with Rena’s cackle, makes them sound like a couple of old witches. Well, all of a sudden the men look pretty scared and I just stand there amazed until Olive shrieks, “I guess if I was really proud of my private parts I’d show those off instead of my paintings!” Now both of them are doubled over and falling onto the kitchen couch.

  Funny how the linemen’s visit ends right at this point. In spite of Olive’s attempts to get them to stay for dessert, a chocolate pudding that would take mere minutes to prepare, they suddenly remember they have a job to do out there.

  There’s nothing for me to do now except hand John his sock. He reminds me to be sure to get my hair done at “Crissy’s,” and just before he goes out the door he plants a kiss right fair on my cheek. I blush at what was only meant as some sort of kindness. It sure doesn’t take much these days.

  On their way out, the men toot the utility truck horn and we women wave from the kitchen window. It has started snowing again — day three of the storm.

  20. Escape

  IT FEELS SOME GOOD to plunge the key deep into Billy’s ignition. The truck roars for a second, then shudders before settling into a powerful purr. Overnight, it seems, the temperature has risen enough for the ice on the windshield to slide off easily with a tap of the scraper. For a moment there, this morning, the sun actually broke through the clouds, which caused everyone to cheer except me. Not because I wasn’t happy to see the sun, but because I didn’t want to appear too excited to be running away from Kyle House. “Which is exactly what we’re doing, huh, girl?” I say to Suzie who is curled up beside me on the seat. I’m not quite sure how I’m going to accomplish this, since Olive has given me a long list of supplies to pick up at the Four Reasons. What gets me is what she has written at the top of the list in big letters: INVITE DANNY AND ALANA OVER FOR SUPPER AND BEAR JAMES TOO IF YOU SEE HIM.

  Last night, I went up to bed as soon as the dishes were done — another mountain of them. How does one person generate so many dishes when serving leftover stew? Rena and I were kneeling side by side on the bath mat, our hands deep in the tub scooping up utensils, when Rena said, “Now, what do you suppose this is?”

  “Parsley snipper,” I said, wondering why the hell Olive couldn’t have just torn off the few sprigs of parsley she needed to add to the stew instead of messing up this thing.

  “This is a new one to me,” Rena said. “I’ll have to tell Tripper about it. He collects just about every gadget there is.”

  Now there was a name I hadn’t heard in a long while. After Ricky Chase died I knew that Tripper had taken on Rena, or was it that Rena had taken on Tripper? In any case, I knew they lived in a tiny house near the marsh right at the edge of town. Alana used to say that, besides peacock feathers, there were two things you should avoid bringing into your home: Tripper O’Leery and Rena Dickson. “Cause he’s sure to rip your man off, and she’s sure to rip one off your man,” she’d said.

  It’s probably been ten years since I’ve seen either of them since I hardly ever go to town. And suddenly here she was, Rena, kneeling beside me in front of a bathtub, and with just the mention of Tripper, they land back in my life. All thanks to Olive who is so desperate for friends she’ll pick up anyone off the road. I wouldn’t let her through my front door. Tripper either.

  I think Rena must have read my thoughts just then because she said, “You know, he’s changed a lot since he got the cancer.”

  “Who?”

  “Tripper.”

  “Tripper O’Leery has cancer?” There was a time when people thought of Tripper O’Leery himself as a cancer. Once he took a .22 rifle out into the marsh and was gone for days. Someone said he’d told them he was fed up with everyone in town, so we all thought he’d gone and done himself in. And it’s a terrible thing to admit, but there weren’t that many sad to hear it, myself included. Even so, when he showed up a week later with a bunch of stinking muskrats tied to his belt, there was an odd mix of disappointment as well as relief around town. Tripper O’Leery may have been bad news, but he was still one of ours. I heard myself say, “I’m sorry to hear that. How’s he doing with it? I mean, will he be okay?”

  “Okay?” Rena shrugged. “That chemo is awful. You ever have it?”

  “Uh, no, can’t say that I have.”

  “Me neither, but there’s so much cancer going around we probably will some day.”

  “Nice thought.”

  “Funny, huh?” Rena laughed. “When you think of all the poison we used to do on purpose.”

  Let me tell you, my head snapped up then, and I looked out to the kitchen to see if Olive may have heard that. But she was sitting at the table next to the kerosene lamp, her head still bent over her hooking project. Rena poked me with her elbow and whispered, “I bet that one over there never got into the kind of stuff we did.”

  I shrugged, like I couldn’t care less, but just hearing her talk about the kind of stuff we used to do made my mouth go all dry and suddenly I felt a need to run to the toilet.

  Recalling that conversation is enough to make me run Billy out of the ruts in Olive’s lane. It’s a high lane, and I jerk the wheel away from the edge just in time. Oh, that would have been good, Trish, landing Billy in the ditch.

  As I turn onto Thunder Hill Road, I’m surprised to see it’s not as rough and icy as I imagined. It’s even bare in spots. All morning, the sun has been breaking through the clouds over Thunder Hill. Bear must be at home in his cabin because a plume of smoke wafts up through the trees. I picture him tending his fire, the way he putters around his yard collecting wood, squatting in front of the hearth to light the kindling. Oh, look, his clothes have gotten wet, so he’s taking them off there in front of the fire. His body looks golden in the light, and the heat or something has given him an erection.… Oh, Trish, where are you going with this? Because now he has it in his hand and he’s got this thoughtful face on because he is thinking about … about … you, of course, and his missed opportunity on the pool table. Easy girl, I’m thinking, you’re almost at the Four Reasons and you probably shouldn’t go in there all flushed and panting. Alana once declared that men have an unfair advantage over women, starting when they get their first erections and learn to think about other things to keep it in check. They have a whole lifetime to perfect the idea of mind over matter. We women go through life oblivious to this learned skill. We all laughed when she came out with this idea. Now I’m thinking maybe she was on to something, because I probably look like I’m burning up. Qu
ick Trish, you’re rounding the final corner before the Four Reasons. Who knows, maybe Bear is there in the store right now. Think about something to calm you down. Think about Olive’s grocery list. What did she want me to pick up anyway?

  A box of raisins, for all the oatcakes she’ll bake.

  Vegetable shortening for the pies.

  Lemons to go with the gigantic salmon that has thawed and must be eaten tonight.

  Batteries, toilet paper!

  Candles, bread and butter pickles for the kids.

  Extra dog food in case the storm picks up again.

  Bear really is hot.

  That does it. It’s time to get some expert advice on this whole matter.

  21. Angry Alana

  JUDGING BY THE WAY Alana is snapping apart the wooden vegetable crates and stuffing them into the stove, I gather that now might not be the time to ask her about anything.

  It’s a pretty feeble fire she’s got going; it barely takes the chill off the place. And knowing Alana, she’s too stubborn to leave the store to go across the road to the Bradley Farm where there’s a generator and warmth.

  “Have you thought about what you might burn next?” I say, looking around the store.

  Alana straightens up and places her hands on the small of her back, which is a sure sign that she’s stressed. Or pissed. Or both.

  “Yeah, I’m thinking of burning down the store. We’ll go out with a big bonfire at least.”

  “Right,” I say. “Where’s Danny anyway?”

  Another sore point — I can tell immediately by the way she cracks the last slat over her knee. I open the stove grate for her and she pops in the pieces.

  “Danny took it upon himself to go all the way up Thunder Hill to collect fallen branches around Bear’s house. So he borrowed the Bradley’s truck yesterday afternoon and nobody’s seen him since. Including the Bradleys.”

  I say the appropriate things, like, isn’t she worried? But all the while I’m processing what it means that Danny has gone up to Bear’s. Would Bear tell him how I was practically humping him there on the pool table?