Learning to Live Again Page 12

  “But how do we get from it to the dog?”

  “Easy. There’s a wooden door down there—leads to the water heater—that’s where we’re likely to find Pat.” Peter’s voice rose in excitement as if this was an adventure to be savored.

  Sam wanted to tell him he’d wait for him in the kitchen.

  “What?” Peter could see the wheels turning, Sam guessed.

  “You have a lantern? What?”

  “You’ll see in a minute,” Peter said, getting to his feet while pulling on the brass ring.

  The trap door opened with a creak, a musty smell, and a blast of cold air.

  Peter eased himself down wooden steps that were both steep and narrow. Sam could barely make out his form in the darkness below, but a chain pull produced light from a bare bulb that dangled from a floor joist. Peter looked up and grinned. “And there was light,” he said spreading out his arms, palms up.

  “Smart ass.”

  It dawned on Sam in a wave of embarrassment: he knows I’m afraid. And suddenly Sam perceived the foolishness of a fear held fast since childhood, now forced to hold it up and look it in the face. He bounded down the steps taking the dare in Peter’s gesture.

  The room was maybe ten by ten, cinder block walls, wooden shelves built in wooden frames and anchored to the walls with steel pegs. Dusty, empty mason jars lined the shelves on one wall. A cardboard box with a picture of a two-part canning lid sat across from the jars on a shelf by itself, and below it a blue enamel pot Sam recognized as a canner. Intricate cobwebs draped everything. Sam shivered, probably not from the cold.

  Peter worked to remove a wooden peg from the latch holding fast a wooden door. “The water heater is just a few feet on the other side,” he grunted.

  “Here. Let me.” Sam removed the peg with a pop of his closed hand and tried the door. “Feels like something’s pushed up against it,” he said laying into it with his shoulder and gaining an inch. A loud bark made them both jump. Pat’s nose and a paw jammed into the slice of opening.

  “Any idea what’s on the other side of this door?”

  Peter shrugged, avoided Sam’s eyes and knelt to touch Pat’s paw. “It’s okay, girl, we’re comin’.”

  ******

  Margie watched the thick blade in front of the heavy wheeled vehicle raise and lower as they bumped and jostled down Hiker Hill, taking her to work. Brownie was quiet, as if the road and working the plow took all his concentration. What was he thinking? That I’m irresponsible—a fool of a silly schoolgirl? An unfit mother? She couldn’t imagine Brownie ever fitting into the liberal-minded Woodstock generation that influenced many people of his age. His service and standing in the community was a cornerstone of immutable commitment.

  Just when she was about to mutter something inane like, “I stopped by to see Allison Gear, but the storm …” he turned his face to her.

  “This love stuff—hurts like hell, don’t it?” he said then turned his face back to the road, his eyes fixed on the blade, and ended her self-recrimination. She’d known he was a wise man, but sometimes his kindness took her by surprise.

  *******

  “The diner is closing early. Won’t be no through traffic in this blizzard after sundown,” Barker announced to the assembled staff of two as she and Brownie entered.

  “You mights well take her back to home,” he told Brownie, nodding his head toward Margie. “Hannah and Andy can handle all ther’s gonna’ be goin’ on heah. Give her a day off.”

  “I’ve had too much time off this week already,” Margie said, counting off the hours on her fingers, a mental picture of her paycheck forming.

  “Can’t help it,” Barker yelled, his voice slipped out of control as it did when he became excited. “Cheaper to pay ya not to be heah then heat this barn with no customers.”

  “Maybe Hannah wants to be off?” she offered. Even a few hours were better than none at all.

  “Don’t pay Hannah what I pay you.”

  Brownie grabbed Margie’s elbow and raised his hand to stave off further discussion while using a hip to open the door to their escape.

  “Why don’t you come to the bonfire at the reservoir tonight,” he asked her, helping her step up into the cab of the truck. “I‘ll pick you up as soon as I make one more pass at the hill. Sam’s taking Peter. You’ve never been, have you?”

  “No.” Margie wondered would Sam want her to go? Would Peter? It occurred to her this wasn’t the weekend. “A bonfire on a Tuesday night?”

  “First big snow of the year. Don’t need more excuse than that,” Brownie said. “Do you have a snowmobile suit? Allison does, I’m sure. She won’t mind if you borrow it.”

  They arrived at the Merryhill yard before Margie could answer. The Ski-doo was parked at the fence. Sam and Peter are still here. Is Pat all right? Margie slid from the seat of Brownie’s truck and scrambled down the plowed path to the door.

  Brownie plodded after her at a safe pace. He couldn’t figure how a slipped disk would help the dog, though the path was more crunchy than slippery right now. He found Margie crouched down, peering down the hole to the fruit cellar. Peter was yelling something.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Brownie asked.

  “They can’t get the door open. Something very heavy is pushed up against it on the other side.”

  “Hells, bells, what we gonna’ do now?” Brownie pulled the hunter’s cap off his head, scratched the bald spot on his crown and re-anchored the cap using both hands. “You got to keep that door clear, son, you should know that,” Brownie yelled into the opening. Margie gave him a look like, “That helped.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know …” he mumbled, and repeated the cap routine.

  “Got to figure some other way to get under the house,” he said to Margie. “Sam, you down there?” Stupid question; he knew he was.

  “Yeah, I’m here. Whatever’s pushed up against this door isn’t budging,” Sam answered in a strained voice.

  “She’s warm enough down there with the water heater, and she can climb out to the snow if she needs water. Maybe we’re goin’ to have to wait for daylight, and figure another way to get to her.” Brownie dropped to his knees and bent low to peer into the room. “No cracks you can squeeze food through? Keep her goin’ til tomorrow?”

  Brownie watched as Sam used his foot to nudge Peter who still crouched with his finger wedged in the crack scratching Pat’s paw. “What’s on the other side of the door?” he asked him again.

  “Engine,” Peter mumbled just above a whisper, without looking up.

  “What!”

  “It ain’t mine. Belongs to Piccolo.”

  Brownie couldn’t hear what Peter was saying and was growing uncomfortable in his position, sprawled on the floor with his head hanging down a hole. He stood up and brushed off his pants. “Can’t dig her out before mornin’. Got some dog biscuits or somethin’ we can squeeze through that crack?” he asked Margie.

  Brownie handed down a bag of goodies to Sam.

  “I’ll come by in an hour or so when I finish plowin’. Dress warm,” he told Margie just before he slipped out the back door. She still hadn’t said she’d go to the bonfire.

  ******

  Margie scooped three measures of coffee into the paper filter and turned on the drip maker while her mind scanned the contents of the underbelly of the house. The fruit cellar door was kept carefully clear for just this kind of emergency; nothing her mind could see would so block that door. Even the lawn mower would budge if pushed by the heft of a shoulder as broad as Sam’s.

  Pat would feast on scraps from the diner and milk bones she’d put together in the bag, but would have to spend the night under the house. Margie would not care to share her fate, and so was miffed at the jammed door. The incident gave her something to fill her mind, something other than Sam. Who was she kidding?

  “Coffee smells wonderful,” Sam said entering the kitchen with Peter close behind. “She’ll be okay for the night.”

  “
What’s jammed against the door?” Margie asked, looking up from pouring the coffee in mugs.

  Sam looked at Peter.

  “Uh … Piccolo got this engine. Needed a place to put it.”

  “Piccolo? Since when are you friends with Joe Piccolo?” Visions of her son lying in a hospital bed marched in her mind.

  “We talk sometimes.” Peter’s eyes were directed at the floor.

  “Piccolo is not the kind of person I want you to hang around with.”

  “Mom, I don’t hang around with anyone. And what do you have against Piccolo?”

  “He’s two years older than you, for one thing and he’s wild.”

  “Wild? He’s weird, not wild,” Peter said, his voice on the rise. “How is Joe Piccolo wild?”

  Margie tried to remember some piece of gossip, but not one to take much interest in none-of-her-business, she failed to come up with much. “He smokes.” There.

  A large grin spread across Peter’s face. “Oh, wow, that’s really wild, Mom.”

  Margie looked from a grinning Peter to a chuckling Sam and allowed herself a smile.

  “Besides, I think he quit,” Peter said.

  “Sit down and have some milk and cookies,” she said nodding her head at the refrigerator before placing a plastic container of toll house and a glass on the table.

  Margie waited for Peter to get the milk and sit before she spoke. “Where did the engine come from?”

  “I told you, Piccolo.”

  “Where did he get it,” Margie and Sam said at the same time.

  “Found it,” Peter said.

  “Like a penny someone dropped in the street?” Sam’s brows knitted until he bit into a soft cookie. He raised his brows, held up the cookie, said, “Delicious.”

  “It’s not like it’s new or anything.”

  “You told me it’s a ’57 Chevy V8 with fuel injection. That’s not a piece of cake,” Sam said and grabbed another cookie.

  “I don’t know where he got it.” Peter was staring at his hands, watching them wring a paper napkin.

  “You know, Peter, you need to tell the truth ‘cause you are really lousy at lying,” Sam said, smiled and ran his tongue over chocolate stuck to his front teeth.

  Margie gave Peter a “Give it up” look.

  “Frank had it out in the shed behind the trailer.” The words tumbled out in a monotone, quick and quiet. “You see, Joe was buying it from him, but then Frank died, and …” Peter looked up, glanced from Margie to Sam then back at his hands. He shook his head. “It looks like we stole it, but we didn’t. Not all-together.” He looked into his mother’s eyes. “He was buying it, he was, and when Old Frank up and died there was no way Joe could get his money back. No one would have believed him.”

  “So you two stole it out of the shed,” Margie said.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What exactly?”

  “Yeah.” His voice was so low they couldn’t hear him, but he shook his head.

  “You’ll have to tell Sheriff Polanski. Frank had no living relatives anyone knew about but he did leave some debt.”

  “Joe’s dad’ll kill him. Joe’ll kill me for tellin’.” Peter wiped at his eyes; his shoulders shook. “And he won’t talk to me anymore.”

  Sam spoke up, “You mean Frank Gibb, the night-watchman at Summer’s Lumber Mill?”

  Margie looked from Peter to Sam. “Mr. Summer found him in the trailer. He died in bed—heart attack. About two months ago.”

  Sam shook his head. “Frank Gibb was a poster child for the devastation of the Viet Nam soldier. He and my dad were pals when they were kids. Dad said Frank was a brain, and a talented athlete. Could have had a scholarship to the college of his choice. But he fooled around for a year after high school and got drafted.”

  “He came in the diner on Thursday afternoons,” Margie said. “Payday. He had to have one good meal a week. Besides, he told me, the diner was on the way to the liquor store. He’d talk Hannah into pulling me out of the kitchen so he could kiss the cook. Bet he’d have died of embarrassment if I’d leaned over the counter and kissed him.” She smiled. “I miss our Thursday afternoon talks.”

  Peter fidgeted in his chair. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, or anything, but old Frank would have given Joe that engine if he’d-a known he was dyin’. Joe was all the time goin’ by to visit him, seeing if he needed anything.” Peter looked from his mother to Sam, a sincere plea painted on his face. “That engine belongs to Joe sure enough.”

  Sam and Margie looked at one another. She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know what to do. Don’t I have to tell Eddie Polanski? Let him figure it out?”

  Sam folded his hands on the table. “Seems to me, if Joe Piccolo says he paid for that engine either with money or work, and if everyone agrees that Frank Gibb would have wanted Joe to have that engine, what right have we or Polanski to interfere?” He pursed his lips, locked eyes with Margie, and then added, “What kind of debt could Frank have left? He owed the diner a couple of bucks maybe, and the liquor store? Let it go.”

  A smile spread across Peter’s mouth as he turned his face to his mother. “I’ll have to think about it,” she said, her eyes reflected in Sam’s.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Brownie stopped outside the back door of the Merryhills, surveyed the path he’d plowed earlier and decided the short wall of snow had packed and held the path around the house and to the back door. Night was coming fast, bringing with it a brisk chill that would dip the temperature near zero. Ice was the next problem to tackle, and he’d tell Peter to salt the walkways. Or was it Sam he needed to be telling, he thought with a smile. He honked the horn for Margie and heard a muffled bark from under the house. He watched her emerge from the back, looking more like a fat space alien then the wisp of girl that was Margie. Dressed in Allison’s one-piece snowmobile suit, puffed mittens, moon boots, and stocking hat and mask, Margie marched, a wrapped robot, to the truck.

  “Snowmobiling had better be all it’s cracked up to be,” she stated, trying to maneuver her bulk into the cab. Brownie grabbed her under an arm and hoisted her up the step to the bench seat.

  “It is.”

  The latest and greatest model Polaris snowmobile followed in the trailer hitched to Brownie’s truck. “Catherine loved the cook outs up at the reservoir,” he said reminiscing out loud, “almost as much as racing down the mountainside in our old Artic Cat. ‘Better than sex’, she told me.” Brownie chuckled and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Lord, how I miss that lady.”

  Margie squeezed his arm.

  “So, what was the outcome of the cellar door obstruction?” he asked, changing the subject.

  Margie repeated the conversation Peter, Sam and she’d had in the kitchen.

  “You know Joe was all the time going by to sit with Frank and cleaning up after him. He took it upon himself to do the Christian thing none of the rest of us wanted to do. I mean, our sensibilities were offended by the condition of that broken down trailer Frank lived in.” Brownie could have told her he’d also seen Peter walking out there in the yard, and sitting with Frank out in front of his place, but he thought better of it.

  “Be my guess Frank would want Joe to have that engine. The man had nothing else to give him.” Brownie lifted his cap, smoothed his hair, set his cap back on his head. “You do what you think you have to, but if it were me, I’d let it rest. Let the kids have their engine to tinker with.” God knows, they both got precious else, he thought but didn’t say.

  “I’m not keen on them being friends, Brownie.” She sat grim mouthed, her brows knitted, spoiling the sparkle he depended on in her presence. “Joe is two years older than Peter and that’s light years at Peter’s age.”

  Brownie looked at her, his eyebrows raised.

  “Well, he’s wild, I’ve heard. Isn’t he?”

  “Joe’s not a bad kid. Seen a lot worse.” Brownie performed his hat routine before he continued. “The boys could be good for on
e another. God knows they could both use a friend.”

  Margie offered him a look of skepticism and spoke in a voice laced with irritation. “Parents need to take more care in their children’s companions.”

  “What exactly you got against Joe Piccolo?”

  “I haven’t heard anything good about him.”

  “I just told you something good. He took care of that old sot when no one else would go near him.”

  “Maybe ‘cause ‘birds of a feather….”

  “This ain’t like you, Margie,” was all Brownie could say. He shook his head and stared at the heavily sanded road ahead.

  ******

  Smoke, a gray cloud rising toward the sky, smudged the brilliant sunset. Like my mood, Margie thought. She couldn’t say why Joe Piccolo was such an issue with her. Wasn’t he under suspicion for hurting Peter? What did Sam know that she didn’t? When did Peter and Sam become pals? Was she jealous of Sam? Surely she didn’t begrudge Peter having someone other than herself. Or was she jealous of Peter having Sam’s attention?

  Brownie parked his truck alongside the other vehicles left in the clearing. Margie counted ten in all and recognized Dr. Pharr’s 4-wheel drive Explorer. An empty snowmobile trailer was hitched to the back. Brownie and Margie trudged in silence toward the smoke and smell of roasting hot dogs. A two-burner Coleman stove was sending out its own vapors of hot cider and perked coffee, and an Igloo chest sat next to it, lid open, loaded with canned beer, brandy, bourbon and scotch.

  Brownie stopped to talk to a group Margie recognized as high school teachers and their spouses. Not many of them were diner customers. The teachers preferred the atmosphere of the new coffee house behind the Green Mountain Inn, or the Inn itself, to the noisy truck stop. Brownie needed help to unload his Polaris and a couple of the men in the group followed him back to his truck. Margie moved on up the trail in search of Peter and Sam.

  His back to her, Margie recognized Sam by his stance—straight but loose with an arrogance of belonging. He was talking to Ken Summer, the owner of the lumberyard, who was waving his hot dog on a stick like a baton. She stood quietly next to Sam, waiting for a break in conversation to ask of her son’s whereabouts. She didn’t see Peter or Sam’s snowmobile.