Glare Ice (8 page)

Snooper pulled at his leash.

“Let’s go down to the lake,” she suggested, and again, the happy little dog danced.

They walked, and the snow fell, light, feathery snow that sailed out of the sky. Around the lampposts in the town, it seemed to swarm like bees around a hive. It started to accumulate on the sidewalks.

When they got to the town center, they turned down the street going to the park. No cars were parked on the street, no one was outside at all. The new Christmas decorations had been hung last week—large silver bells—and they moved gently in the snow. Everyone in town had contributed money toward the bells. Sven had worked hard to hang them up. He was so proud of them. He told her he had picked them out himself.

Down on the lake, Stephanie could see two figures out on the ice, one bigger than her and the other about half that size. She slowed her steps; she didn’t really want to talk to anyone. She was leaving. It made no sense to try to get to know anyone. She was gone.

But she kept moving toward the lake. When Snooper saw the two people on the lake, he strained at his leash to go see them. He was a very friendly dog and liked to greet everyone. Stephanie kept a good hold on him. He would have to be disappointed.

When she was close to the edge of the lake, she could see who was out on the ice. It was the woman deputy, Claire Watkins, and her daughter. Stephanie wasn’t sure what the little girl’s name was, but she sure was cute. She had on a pair of skates and was trying her darnedest to move around on the ice. Her ankles were bending, and her skates were slipping out from under her. Down she went.

“Mom, that’s ten. I’ve fallen down ten times so far.”

“I would have broken every bone in my body,” Claire said. She had on big boots and was sliding around close to her daughter, but not trying to catch her when she fell. That was probably a good idea. That way her daughter would learn more quickly not to fall—there would be incentive.

Stephanie stood close to them and watched. Snooper started to whine, so she picked him up and cuddled him. He snuggled down into her arms and hid his head in the crook of her sleeve.

She wanted to have a daughter. One that she would protect so that no man would ever hurt her.

The snow kept falling.

Stephanie remembered when she had told the policeman that her boyfriend had hit her. “So move out,” he had said.

“I don’t want to leave him.”

“Then I can’t help you.”

When Jack had broken her arm, she had gone back in to file charges. She went to the same policeman because she thought he would remember her. He had.

“It’s your own fault,” he had told her.

She had left without filing. She knew she would get no help there.

She could step out onto the ice and say that someone was trying to kill her. She could tell this Claire about all that had gone wrong in her life. But Claire had a daughter, and they were having fun skating. Thanksgiving was tomorrow. No one wanted to hear about her problems. Claire would probably blame Stephanie too. Tell her that if she would have only thought more highly of herself, this would have never happened.

Stephanie had only seen Buck skate once. When she had first started to get to know him, he had invited her to go watch him play hockey. She had been astounded at how graceful he had been on the ice. The ugly duckling became a swan in front of her eyes. But the ice had betrayed him in the end. He had sunk under the ice. It had not held him and let him fly that one last time.

Tears and snow mixed on her face. She gripped Snooper and turned away from the lake. She needed to pack. It was time to get ready to leave.

T
HE
big bird was cold, ugly, and awkward. It lay on the kitchen counter like a lump of lard. It was seven o’clock in the morning, and Claire would rather have been in bed. The stuffing was almost ready to go in the turkey. She had precooked the liver and onions on the stove, then folded in the bread crumbs and water. The resultant mélange wasn’t particularly appetizing, a gray, soggy mess.

Steven had always cooked the turkey—when he was alive. The memory of him in their old kitchen shot through her. Sometimes she missed her dead husband so much the feeling threatened to weaken her knees and tumble her to the floor. She remembered Steven making coffee, humming in the kitchen as he manhandled the turkey into a roaster and slammed it into the oven. He loved cooking big chunks of meat, a beef slab or rack of lamb or humongous turkey.

Claire had bought a twenty-pounder. According to
The Joy of Cooking,
this bird would have to cook at least six hours and then sit for another half hour before you carved it. She figured if she got it in by eight, they could easily eat by four.

Rich said his mother would like to leave by six so she could get home before her bedtime.

Claire reviewed the menu in her mind: she’d done the cranberry molds last night, and they were chilling in the fridge, Bridget would bring the relish, Rich’s mom the chestnut dressing, the turkey would go in soon, Meg would make the pumpkin pie this morning when she got up. Claire had yet to make mashed potatoes, wild rice, and green beans with almonds. She had bought rolls from Le Pain Perdu. They were all set to go. They wouldn’t go hungry, that was for sure.

If only Rich’s mother wasn’t coming. If it wasn’t for that, Claire would be totally relaxed. Come to that, she’d be sleeping. They would have eaten at a more fashionable hour.

The phone rang as she was cramming the stuffing inside the turkey. She knew it could only be one person. “Almost in,” she answered the phone, cradling it on her shoulder so she could keep stuffing.

“You or the turkey?” Rich asked.

Claire laughed. She blessed the man who could make her laugh as she was elbow deep inside a turkey.

“I thought you’d be up.”

“Wish you were here,” she said.

“Will be soon. I’m heading out to get the matriarch. Hope the drive isn’t too bad. It’s supposed to snow all day long, according to the weather station.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Mom might have to stay with me tonight, if we get too much snow.”

Claire looked out the window. It was still dark out, but under the streetlights she could see how deep the snow was on the road. Everything looked clean and perfect in this almost completely black-and-white landscape.

“Have the snowplows been by on the highway?” she asked him.

“Not yet. But they should be soon. Don’t envy those guys.”

“Drive careful. I hope you don’t get stuck in Rochester with your mom.”

“We’d probably have Spam for dinner. She still has that around as a remnant from the cold-war mentality.”

They said their good-byes and hung up.

Claire faced the turkey. She hoisted it up and plopped it into the roaster. It just fit. It hadn’t even occurred to her that it might not. She smeared it with butter and salted and peppered it. A short prayer for the perfect turkey to save the day. The oven was preheated. In it went.

She grabbed the cardamom roll she had heated in the oven, poured herself another cup of coffee, perched on a stool at her counter, and looked out the window. The snow fell so quietly. Everything glowed in its covering. Light showed faintly in the east, over the bluffs, and gently through the snow. The day had started. It would bring what it would bring.

Mom said she could do it totally herself. She had even given Meg the kitchen and was lounging in the bathtub taking a soaking bath. “As long as someone’s doing something, I can relax,” she had told Meg before she left the room.

Meg did not want to disappoint her mother. This pie had to be perfect. Mom had already made the crust, chilling in the fridge. The one rule Mom had was that Meg should wait until her mother was done with the bath to put the pie in the oven. “I don’t want you to burn yourself,” she said.

The way to start, Meg decided, was to put everything out so you could see it all. She got her favorite bowl, a big red one that would be way big enough to hold the pie filling. Mom had already opened the can of pumpkin, and she set that next to the bowl. Then she lined up the spices: nutmeg, cinnamon, mace, and allspice. Her favorite was nutmeg—it smelled the way she thought a fairy might smell.

She got the salt from the stovetop, and then she needed the sugar. A small bowl of sugar sat next to the stove. The chunks looked kinda big, but she was sure they would melt in the pie filling. She grabbed that and set it next to all her other ingredients. Then she got the measuring devices. She loved the silver chain of spoons, one slightly bigger than the next, and how they all fit together. So sweet.

Now she was ready to go. It was more exciting doing it all by yourself. Total responsibility. She wished Mr. Turner would allow her that. If she home-schooled, she could really learn to cook. Her friend Janie, who home-schooled, did all the baking for her family. She was Meg’s same age, and she made chocolate chip cookies and pies and even cakes that she frosted and everything.

First Meg lifted up the pumpkin can and turned it upside down. Nothing happened. She gave it a couple of good, hard thumps on the bottom, and the orange goop came sliding out. Plop! Gross, she thought. She wondered what it tasted like plain. Meg stuck her finger in and took a taste. Really gross! Like bad baby food.

She was so excited her little cousin was coming over today. Maybe Bridget would let her hold Rachel. She knew she could do it. She was nearly the age where she could babysit. In another year or two, she would probably be baby-sitting Rachel. What a blast! Rachel would really be like her little sister.

Then Meg wondered about Rich’s mother. She was picturing her like the Wicked Witch of the West from
The Wizard of Oz.
Her grandmother June was nice and always smelled like a flower. But Meg could tell that her mother was nervous about Rich’s mother coming and thought maybe it was because she wasn’t very nice. Meg would be on her best behavior.

Carefully Meg started measuring in the spices. They made the mixture turn a darker color. It looked better, more like pumpkin pie should look. Then she cracked in the egg and mixed in the milk. She added the salt and then the sugar.

She thought of trying the mixture again, but decided it would taste so much better when it was all cooked together. Like a chemistry experiment.

“Mom,” she yelled. “It’s all ready.”

“What?” her mother yelled back.

Meg ran to the door of the bathroom. “Can I come in?”

“Sure, sweetie.”

Meg opened the door and, as she stepped into the room, was enveloped in the good-smelling mist from her mother’s bath. Her mother’s hair was up high on her head in a ponytail, and her body was stretched out in the tub.

She didn’t see her naked very often, but her mother wasn’t shy or anything. She walked around in her bra and underpants if it was warm out, sometimes. She didn’t always close the door when she was going to the bathroom. But her mother’s body still surprised her—it was so soft looking with those round breasts. Meg knew she was going to get some, but she didn’t quite believe it.

“I’m done, Mom.”

“Great. I’ll be out in another minute or two. Thanks for helping out, Meg. I couldn’t do it without you.”

“Do you need me to scrub your back?”

“Oh, not today. I think I’ve soaked all the dirt off me.” Her mother stepped up out of the water and wrapped a towel around her body.

“Hey, Mom, can we make ourselves beautiful for the company?” Meg knew just the outfit she wanted to wear—her red velvet top and black skinny pants.

“I think that would be a great idea.” Her mother leaned over her, warm and wet smelling, and kissed her on the forehead.

“I tasted the pumpkin.”

“That’s a good idea when you’re cooking, to taste as you go along.”

“It didn’t taste very good.”

“It’s going to be delicious.”

The snow was still coming down. Stephanie watched it for a moment as she packed a big duffel with clothes. Thank God the snowplows had just gone by on the highway. At least she would be able to get out of here. If she would have had to stay one more day, she would have lost her mind. As it was she was hardly sleeping anymore, hearing sounds in the night.

Stephanie was only taking two of everything—like Noah loading up the Ark—two nightgowns, two jeans, two T-shirts, two sweaters, two pairs of shoes, two shirts. But she decided to take a week’s worth of underclothes. She packed enough food so she wouldn’t have to stop for a day or two. She packed a jug of water and put a huge bag of Snooper’s food in the trunk of the car. If need be, she could eat that. She had nibbled on it at work—it wasn’t bad.

Her weaving she put into the backseat of the car. She made a bed for Snooper on the floor of the passenger seat out of an old afghan that her mother had crocheted for her. When they got settled, it would be nice to have the afghan with her to put on her new bed.

Stephanie would contact her mother eventually, but she wouldn’t tell her where she was. Not for a long, long time.

Jack hadn’t stopped by to see her, nor had he called. He often stepped back from her after a bad burst of violence. She truthfully thought he didn’t quite know what he had done, or he was able quickly to forget the reality of his offense. But he needed some time to do it. Even when they had lived together, he would walk around like he didn’t see her for a while. If he looked at her, he would have been forced to face the evidence of his work.

She wished she could completely hate him. She was absolutely terrified of him, but in the core of her there was some part that still wanted him, that still believed she could change him. Maybe she would always have that. But if she got an ocean between them, it would be harder to act on it.

Snooper was sitting on top of one of her piles of clothes. He didn’t want to be left behind. She felt like she could do what she was doing—running far, far away—because of the dog. She wasn’t as alone as she had been. She had something to take care of.

The one time she had gotten pregnant, Jack had blown up and beat her so bad that she had miscarried. She tried not to think about it too much. Part of her had been so relieved. How could she bring a child into a household with this violent man? How could she protect it when she couldn’t even take care of herself? She was quite sure he had kicked her in the stomach on purpose.

Her hands shook, thinking about it. Time to go.

She carried down the last duffel bag. She was leaving the whole house full of furniture. She was also leaving a note telling the landlord to keep the damage deposit for December’s rent. She didn’t need him trying to track her down too. She had left a message on the voice mail at work, telling her boss that she quit. She had no mail coming that she needed forwarded.

No trace. She was about to disappear.

She went back into the house one last time. She would miss this place. A view of the lake, good walks, nice neighbors. Fort St. Antoine had been a good place for her to live. She had even thought she might be able to get enough work doing her rugs that she could make a go of it. But it was not to be.

After scooping Snooper up, she did one last walk-through of the house. She picked up the earrings that Jack had given her for Christmas many years ago, carried them into the bathroom, and flushed them down the toilet.

She had over a thousand dollars in her pocket. She had a fake ID that she had bought a few years ago.

“Let’s go, little guy,” she said to Snooper.

His body shook as he tried to wag his tail.

She locked the door and walked to the car, which she had left running. It would be warm for Snooper that way. She put him into his little bed on the floor, even though she suspected he would spend most of the time in the car sitting on her lap, looking out the window. She gave him a treat.

Then she backed out of the driveway. Too late, she realized that the snowplows had sealed off the end of it. She hit the white wall they had left behind and tried to drive through, only digging her car deeper into the huge snowbank.

She tried to rock the car by hitting the gas and then putting it in reverse, but it wouldn’t move.

She was stuck.