Learning to Live Again Page 11

  Oh, God, don’t let me cry, she pleaded, feeling a torrent well up deep inside her chest. She willed herself not to blink—to lay still like a rock, impassive, expressionless. She looked down at nothing, then at his hands. She pushed his arms away from her, sat up, and scooted off the bed, picking her clothes up off the floor as she landed. With her things bundled under her arm she walked naked from the room, to the bathroom down the hall.

  She showered, shampooed her hair. Drying herself made all too clear the tender parts of her shame. No threat of tears now, she imagined herself as empty as a newly dug grave awaiting the casket. “Look at that fool of a woman,” she said aloud to her reflection in the mirror above the sink. A grim smile raised the corners of her mouth, “Dear God, will I never grow up.” She stretched her neck, bringing her face closer to her image. “You’re not Cinderella, and there is not now, nor will there ever be a Prince Charming. Not for you, at least. No, Margaret Merryhill. Not for you.”

  “Are you all right in there?”

  How long had he been standing out there, she wondered. Had he heard her talking to herself? She put on her clothes, feeling crummy in yesterday’s underwear. She found a comb in the drawer under the sink and yanked it through her wet hair. She drew a part down the middle and slid hanging strands behind her ears. Her usual hairdo. No reason to bother with that perm now, she thought.

  “Margie, are you all right?” His voice was louder than last time. “If you don’t answer me, I’ll have to break the door down.” A note of panic there.

  She thought to say she was fine, but the words didn’t come. She thought about climbing on the toilet and trying to fit her body through the tiny window above it. But she stood still and silent, and stared at the woman in the mirror.

  He banged on the door. “Answer me, damn it, Margie.” Now he sounded mad.

  She walked to the door and opened it. “It wasn’t locked,” she said and walked on bare feet past him to the stairs. “I’m going to find something to eat,” she told him without once looking at him, and started down the steps.

  CHAPTER XII

  Sam watched her descend the stairs. He should follow her, explain his position. Scenes of guilt danced in his head while he vacillated, running his thumb around the wooden knob atop the banister. He shouldn’t have let it happen. She was a single mom, vulnerable, naïve. He shook his head, put a foot down to the first step, brought it back.

  Well, it wasn’t like she was really in love with him. A little attention, a dance, and the woman thinks she’s in love. Anyway, she started this game, didn’t she? It wasn’t his idea—he didn’t suggest “getting each other out of their systems.”

  He felt like a creep. With the scent of her still in his nostrils, the softness of her body pressed warmly against his chest played in his mind. They were a good fit, he thought. Too bad they couldn’t play it out, see where it took them. Get serious. Impossible. Why was he arguing with himself? He had to stay focused. He was right, you know, she was too young and he was not a good risk.

  He started down the stairs, his attention on the quiet coming from the kitchen.

  Sam found Margie sitting, a foot tucked under her, her hands cupped around a coffee mug. The pot was dripping, barely started.

  “What’s in the cup?” Surely she wasn’t drinking yesterday’s coffee.

  “Nothing. I don’t think Brownie’s started plowing yet. I tried calling—his line’s busy,” she said, staring at the mug. “Probably everyone is calling him to plow them out.”

  Sam walked to the cupboard and pulled out his favorite mug, Wedgwood blue with a golden ship and sails, the one his dad used every morning Sam could remember.

  “Close enough,” he said and poured coffee from the still dripping pot. “You take cream or sugar?” he asked, plucking Margie’s cup from the circle of her hands.

  “Black, please.”

  He filled her cup then placed it down in front of her. “I make a decent omelet. Mom brought home some Cabot white cheddar from the co-op last week. You game?”

  Margie broke concentration with her cup and glanced up out of eyes floating in thought and tears. She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m mighty empty.” Her voice, small and throaty, hung in the air like the last leaking balloon.

  Those eyes would be his undoing, Sam was certain, if he didn’t keep careful distance. “Cheese omelets coming up,” Sam said, turning quickly to the job of cooking breakfast.

  In spite of the situation, or maybe because of it, as he whipped the eggs, Sam thought that the silence was comfortable, like old shoes. Margie’s presence brought a softness to the room, a warming he’d not felt in here since his homecoming. He began a silent humming, one of the Doris Day songs from last night. How did the words go? Bewitched, bothered and bewildered am I? Sam suppressed the smile that pushed at his lips.

  After placing a plate of golden egg and brown wheat toast in front of her, Sam sat across from Margie and waited with great expectation for her first bite. She looked up and offered him a tiny smile. “Smells wonderful.”

  “Eat,” he said with too much gusto.

  “Delicious.” She ate with an appetite that both surprised and enchanted him.

  “Listen. About what you said,” now that he started, he had no idea where he was going, “What I’m trying to say is …”

  “Don’t say anything. Please.” She put down her fork with a shaky hand. “What would a man like you want with some diner cook? A skinny, homely one at that.” She tried a chuckle at the same time jabbing her eye with a napkin. “My momma brought up one silly fool.”

  Words jumbled up in Sam’s head. Not one thing he could say would fix the morning. And words wouldn’t make Margie more than a cook at a small town diner, or make her beautiful and sexy. He could only say he was sorry.

  “I had a great time. And if you’re skinny, and homely to boot— well, you can’t tell it by me.” Smiling, Sam reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “You are sooo beautiful to me,” he whispered in a throaty, Joe Cocker voice.

  Looking at her now, he realized he meant the words. More than that, he wanted to gather her up in his arms and tell her everything she wanted to hear. But he wasn’t in love. And neither was she. They liked each other. A lot.

  A smile tipped the corners of her lips.

  “My pecker is madly in love,” Sam said before he thought about it. “I can’t look at you without getting a hard on.”

  Her smile disappeared. She removed her hand from his and stood up.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right.” Sam followed her to the sink where she escaped with her plate. “But you don’t understand. I mean this isn’t like me. I don’t mean that either. What I’m trying to say is …” he turned her from her washing to face him, resting his hands on her shoulders. “You’re a very special lady …” and was saved from making matters worse by the ringing of the telephone.

  “The phone,” she said and bowed to remove his hands from her shoulders. “Hello,” breathless, as if she’d been running. She had the phone before she thought it wasn’t her house to answer it.

  “Mom, we’re on our way.” Peter’s voice, loud with excitement. “The hill is so slick, Brownie had to go by the garage for chains.” His voice became muffled as if his hand covered the mouthpiece. “Brownie says it will be awhile. We have to plow a path to Keelers’ first. Little Becky has another ear infection and’s burning up with fever.”

  “Oh, my. That poor child.”

  “We have to go plow up home too and check on Pat, make sure she has food and water. Bet she’s holed up in the cave she dug under the house. I don’t know if we’re doing that before or after the Gears.” Peter’s voice faded as he talked, as though he was forming thoughts.

  “Mom, uhm, I was wondering. It’s really snowed a whole bunch. Mr. Gear told me we’d go snowmobiling as soon as we had enough snow. You think I could ask him?”

  Margie thought a minute, glanced up at Sam, decided to let fate
direct the course. “Here’s Sam,” she said and handed the receiver to him.

  “Hey,” Sam said, “Hear it snowed some.”

  “Brownie and me’s been all up and down the road plowing. It snowed a bunch. It won’t get better than this for snowmobiling, Mr. Gear. What you think?”

  “I think if we’re going to play in the snow together, you should call me Sam. What time can you be ready?”

  “I been ready.”

  ******

  Sam was not prepared for the drifts packed solid against the back door of the house. He managed to get the front door open, but the snow was level with the front porch. I’ll be dead before I shovel a path through that mountain, he thought.

  “Looks like you better pull up a chair and stay awhile,” he called to Margie who watched him through the glass in the front door. He stamped his feet on the mat and came inside bringing puffs of icy cold with him.

  His ears, cheeks and chin were bright red. He pounded thick mittens together before removing them from his hands. “Brrrr! It’s cold out there, little girl.” He tried to touch a hand to Margie’s cheek, but she ducked.

  “I believe you.” She grinned at him with her hands clasped behind her.

  He looked down, noted her still bare feet and smiled, bringing his eyes back to hers. “You wouldn’t consider warming this frozen soldier?”

  “Not a chance.” She continued to smile while she turned and padded back to the kitchen. “Brownie should be here soon,” she said, not looking back.

  “I’m smart enough to leave the shoveling to a snow plow.” He followed her, peeling off his pop’s hunting jacket. “I plan to live through the winter.”

  “Should you be playing out in weather like this?” She turned, placed her hands on the back of a chair and watched his eyes. “Snowmobiling with that ‘bad ticker?’”

  His eyes crinkled before the smile spread across his lips and then he laughed. “I’ll take that chance.”

  ******

  It was mid afternoon before the plow began pushing a path to the Gear’s back door.

  “Man, the drifts here are higher than Keelers’ place,” Peter said to Brownie. He was standing up, half his body hanging out the passenger side window, looking over the roof of the truck at the front of the house. “We’re just going to plow to the back door, aren’t we? I mean we’re not worrying about the front of the house. I mean, it won’t do no good at all without someone shoveling off that porch.

  “Yeah, we are. Guess when we get to the back door you can hop out and take care of that front porch while I plow a path to it,” Brownie said as he packed the snow into the wall he was creating with the plow.

  “I could come over tomorrow and shovel the front porch. Get an early start.” Peter tried. “Not much daylight left today.”

  Brownie backed up a few yards, pushed forward with the plow, backed up, pushed forward, all the while packing the sides of the wall he was forming. “Waste of time sitting in the truck here when you could be shoveling off that porch for the Gears.”

  “We were going to get the Gear’s snowmobile out of the shed after you plowed a path back here. We could be doing that while you’re plowing a path to the front porch. The Gears don’t ever use that front door much.”

  “They would if there was a fire at the back of the house.”

  Brownie spoke with a smile on his lips and Peter knew he understood what was on his mind. He’d talked of nothing else all morning. “How long does it take to learn to drive a snowmobile well enough to drive in the woods?” he must have asked a dozen times. “Does it steer like a sled, kind of? How long does it take to get where you can go fast?”

  “I got this dream of becoming a snowmobile racer,” Peter shared for the first time. Brownie glanced at him, listening. “Of course, I realize racing is down the road after a whole lot of practice. And I know that I have to learn the mechanics of the motor and all. Mr. Gear is gonna teach me all that stuff.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time to snowmobile after the front porch is shoveled. My guess is that job will earn you gas money for your driving lessons.”

  “Hadn’t thought about gas money.” It was Peter’s turn to grin. “Shoveling the Gear’s front porch shouldn’t take long at all. I’ll be done before you get a path plowed up there.”

  Peter was out of the truck as soon as a sliver path made access to the back door possible. He banged with a mitten-clad fist and Sam opened the door, greeting him with a wide grin.

  “Where’s your shovel?” Peter said.

  ******

  Peter was cozy in the one-piece snowmobile suit they’d pulled from the bureau drawer that still contained Sam’s dad’s clothes. Sam wore the two-piece that they’d found hanging in his parents’ bedroom closet. Both suits were black and yellow and white with Ski-Doo embroidered over the heart. The two-piece was as tight and too short on Sam as the one-piece was too big and long on Peter. But they were warm, cuddled within the shiny, soft material, as they headed out to the shed and the Ski-Doo. With maybe an hour left of daylight, Peter and Sam trudged up a narrow path. Peter held his breath, trying not to hope too much, as they shoveled the drifts away from the door. Inside the air smelled of gunk and kerosene and the charred wood in the cold pot bellied stove. The snowmobile gleamed in the spotlight streak of light coming through the smoke-frosted window. “She looks brand new,” Peter said in a whisper.

  Sam put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. The old Ski-Doo started like a fine tuned instrument with the first pull, surprising them both.

  “Wow, you really got her running great,” Peter shouted above the rumble. “You could work for Brownie,” he yelled in an awe inspired voice.

  Sam handed Peter the backpack he’d packed with a thermos of coffee, a flask of brandy, and a couple of Hershey chocolate bars. “Is that a compliment?”

  “Yessir.” Peter’s grin spread, parading that crowd of teeth.

  Sam shook his head and laughed.

  Peter guessed Sam didn’t think so, but working for Brownie would sure beat working at the pharmacy. “I could take auto mechanics at the high school, but Mom wants me to take college prep courses,” Peter said, straddling the Ski-Doo behind Sam.

  “A course in auto mechanics wouldn’t hurt.” Sam thumbed the throttle and they were off on a cloud made of snow.

  First stop was the Merryhill house to check on Pat. Peter wouldn’t think about the stuff stashed under the house. He just couldn’t remember if he’d moved it away from the food cellar door like he’d told himself to do, or was it still there?

  CHAPTER XIII

  Skimming over the blanket of snow, Sam expertly skirted the trees that appeared like ghostly soldiers scattered out of ranks along the landscape.

  Sam looked out over the hill where the doghouse should have been. Surely Peter was looking too. He stopped the snowmobile at the fence gate and turned his head to look at Peter. “If she’s in the doghouse, she’s buried alive.” He hated saying it. A sinking feeling pierced his gut like a blade of ice.

  “Pat don’t ever use that doghouse.”

  Peter’s eyes were on the house. He slid down from the snowmobile and started tracking across the yard. Sam turned off the Ski-Doo and followed.

  “Pat’s dug the Grand Canyon under the house.” Peter turned his head toward Sam so his voice would carry. “Keeps her cool in the summer, sheltered in the winter. Brownie says he don’t like it much since he owns the house, but he lets us keep her.” His words blew out in puffs of icy cloud. “The trick is getting to her when the snow drifts like now.”

  Sam tramped after Pete, following him along the plowed path to the mudroom at the back of the house. “You have a plan?” Sam couldn’t imagine what they could possibly do short of lifting the floorboards.

  Peter shrugged his shoulders. Typical teenager, talks incessantly until you ask him a question.

  The mudroom consisted of a four by three foot entranceway with worn linoleum flooring, scarred black and gray. A m
ulti-colored rag runner ran the length of one wall and atop this lone decoration sat boots and shoes. Above the shoes hung coats on hooks attached to a piece of baseboard nailed to the wall four feet from the floor.

  “So how do we get food and water under the house?”

  On the other side of the room Sam noticed a brass ring recessed into a cutout in the floor. The cutout was packed with dirt and mud. “There’s a fruit cellar down there,” Peter said, pointing with his head. “I need a kitchen knife to dig out the grime.”

  Sam didn’t like the looks of the rectangle opening. He helped Peter dig out the brass ring and imagined stepping through that hole and dropping to a small, black coffin below. “What exactly is this ‘fruit cellar?’”

  He recalled the cellar he discovered under his grandparents’ house. It was Easter Sunday and he and his cousin Alex were behind the house on the egg hunt when they stumbled on the wooden door under the porch, hidden behind the rose trellis. Alex, eleven and two years older, with an egg count less than Sam’s, swore he saw Grandpa “hide eggs down there.”

  Sam should have known something was up when it took a crowbar and all of their might to pry the door open, but at nine years old, rusted hinges and inches of cob webs did nothing to dissuade him from the taunt of adventure.

  He went first, assured his cousin was right behind him. The second step gave way, tossing him face first to the dirt floor below. He scrambled to his feet and started back up the steps, but the stream of light that illumined a small square of ground went suddenly out as his cousin closed the door. “Black as pitch” took on meaning and fear crawled up his spine. He hollered, then he screamed, but no one came. Afraid to sit, or even touch anything, he stood, finally silent, for four hours before the sound of the door and light from a flashlight saved him.

  “A fruit cellar is a fruit cellar.” Peter stopped his cleaning to look at Sam. “You know, a cool place to store food through the winter.”