My hands were damp.
Calm down, I made Steven tell me in my mind. You knew all this before you started.
But Josie turned onto the parkway now, and it wouldn't be that long before we crossed the bridge and left Long Island, maybe twenty minutes, and the mustard woman would just be getting ready for bed.
Next to me, in the dim light, I couldn't see the lines around Josie's eyes, or the ones crisscrossing her forehead. I could pretend we were taking a moonlight ride in the Silver Bullet, pretend Josie was all right and we weren't running.
The last time I had run was two weeks after what had happened in Branches. It was September, still hot, with the sun beating down from early morning until dark. It was hard to move, hard to think; everything hurt in my head and my chest. I'd had enough of the stucco woman and I knew she'd had enough of me. All I could think about was being somewhere cold, a place where I could scoop up a chunk of snow and crush it against my teeth, a place to make the heat and the pain go away.
I left at night, after the stucco woman had fallen asleep. It gave me hours to get out on the road, to find a bus. I was gone for days before they caught me.
Maybe we'd be luckier this time.
It was late when we reached the exit sign for Branches. The gas station light was out, and there was only a tiny light in the back of the grocery store. “We're almost there,” I told Josie, “just the last four miles.”
“Already?” She sounded delighted. She zoomed off the ramp, stopping on the shoulder, and in a moment she was asleep, her head against the steering wheel. Henry climbed off my lap, where he'd been for the past hour, and slid onto hers, his whiskers twitching as he closed his eyes.
I leaned over and turned the key to stop the motor. Suddenly I was wide awake and reaching for the door handle. I gave Henry a pat, then I got out of the car.
At first it was hard to see, but little by little silhouettes appeared against the sky: the curve of a tree trunk, the dark square of the grocery store ahead, and above us, the Old Man's mountain, raising its head to the sky. It was almost a shock to see it there.
Beatrice would have said it was a drawing coming to life. I pictured her in a place with huge cacti, saguaro, I thought they were called. I remembered she'd said she would call every Sunday. What would she think when the phone rang and rang?
I shook myself. What would happen if I tried to call her again?
She'd come home, her dream over.
I wasn't going to do that. Back in the car, I nudged Josie awake. “Just drive this last bit,” I said, “and then you can sleep.”
We drove along the narrow road, no other lights now except for a few houses far up on the hills, and I kept talking to keep her awake. “We'll see the river. It's not as big as your ocean….”
“Your river.” Josie's head bobbed.
“Keep watching,” I told her. “We don't want to go off the road. The river would be cold for a swim.”
I saw her smile. “Henry doesn't have his bathing suit.”
And there was the bridge. I had stood on that bridge watching the pickerel, the catfish, the muskrat building his nest of sticks against its base.
The Old Man's bridge.
“We'll have a fire in the fireplace,” I said, “and turn the heat up high.” I could see the Old Man flipping the switch in the early mornings when dew was still on the grass and the house was still cold.
We thumped across the bridge over the river, and the house was in front of us, waiting. “Josie, this is the place.” My voice was flat. I might have been telling her it was a snowy day or the sun might come out tomorrow, but inside, my heart was thumping.
We had just this winter, I knew that, and maybe the spring. By summer we'd have to find somewhere else.
That was months. That was forever.
I closed my eyes, remembering the last morning I had been here. I had gone out the screen door toward the car, brushing my fingers along the holly bushes, feeling the sharp edges of the leaves against my thumb.
I had walked as far as the town, a long way in the early-morning heat, and sat on the bench with my things on my lap, waiting for the Shortline bus, and looking down, I realized I'd left the drawing box. I think that was the worst moment, knowing I'd never see that box again. Geranium Red, Dove Gray, French Blue.
“We're home, Josie,” I said.
“Hard to see,” she said.
“Just get used to the darkness,” I told her. “In a minute you'll see it all.”
She took everything in then, and I with her: the house with the sloping roof, the evergreens leaning over it, the dark shadow that was the woodpile on the front porch. The rocking chairs were in the shed, I knew that, but I could picture them there, rocking gently.
Josie took a deep breath.
“I knew you'd like it,” I said, watching Henry in the rearview mirror. He stood on the back of the headrest now, his claws in my shoulder, his nose twitching, his whiskers quivering, sizing up the place. “And you too, Henry.”
“But is it all right?” Josie asked, frowning. “Are you sure we can do this?”
“We can.” I brushed away thoughts of being caught, of what the Old Man might think of me if he ever found out. What did he think of me anyway? Please don't mind this thing I'm doing, I begged him in my head.
A red cardinal swooped down to perch on a holly branch that bent itself into the snow, snow marked by threadlike bird prints and deep hollows from the deer. The tracks hugged the edge of the clearing, close to the evergreens, and one path, probably from a rabbit, led to the river.
I wondered if Steven had ever seen the house in the winter. He would love it.
I chewed my knuckle. A lace curtain of snow blew across the porch. It was bitter cold with the engine turned off. I had to get Josie into the house. Her shoes had heels, with open toes and diamond-shaped cutouts in the sides. Why hadn't I thought of her shoes?
Henry scratched his claws along the car window, wanting to get out. I gave his ear a tweak, opened the door, and watched him belly through the snow away from the car.
“I'm sorry, Josie,” I said, still looking down at her feet. They'd be soaked. “You'll have to walk through this to get to the house.”
“An adventure,” Josie said, grabbing the handle.
I slipped her scarf up around her head, the orange a bright spot in the darkness, and buttoned the top button of her coat. “All right,” I said.
Outside we skirted the trees, and she stopped to look up. “A million stars,” she said, pointing. “There's the Dipper and Orion. Beatrice would love it.” Then I held her by the waist as we went up the back steps.
Her face was a little disapproving as I kicked my sneaker off and, hopping, smashed in the small kitchen window. And then we were inside, Henry skittering in around us.
I leaned back against the wall, reaching for the light, hoping they hadn't turned off the electricity. Suddenly the kitchen sprang to life. The refrigerator began to hum, and beyond it, I could see the huge living room with the long table at one end and dark blue rugs scattered across the wood floor. The Old Man was proud of that floor; he always talked about putting it in with Izzy, about matching the pieces of wood exactly, holding up his hands as if Steven and I could see them clutching a hammer and saw.
Josie shivered, her lips colorless, and my hands felt numb. I flipped the switch for heat and heard the furnace start up. At the fireplace chunks of wood and paper were piled in a bin. I knelt there, crumpling the yellowed newspapers to tuck in between some logs, and read last summer's news as I struck a match against the stones of the hearth: Someone had caught a huge trout near Byron's Falls; a sidewalk sale was planned for Main Street; there were canoes for rent in Shadyside.
I had been here last summer; all of that had been happening. I kept talking to Josie, telling her that this place had been mine only for a month or two, but now it was ours. And she sank down on the couch, nodding, watching the fire.
Is it still mine? I asked the Old
Man. Mine for just this winter?
A thin flame curled up from somewhere underneath the logs and Josie clapped her hands. “Fire!”
The Old Man's wooden floor shone with a rosy gleam, and my eyes began to close as my fingers warmed, but I couldn't fall asleep yet.
I settled Josie on the couch and found an old towel to dry her feet. They were mottled from the cold. “Skinny as a bird,” I told her as I rubbed them. She put her head back, asleep again.
In the kitchen I used the same towel to close the opening in the missing window pane. While we were here I'd figure out how to replace that. There was glass in the shed; I'd seen the Old Man measuring and cutting.
I climbed the stairs to the little green room that had been mine. Everything was just the same. The dresser mirror reflected my old sneakers, just visible under the edge of the bumpy white bedspread; the curtains, pink with roses, looped back; and the drawing box on the dresser.
The drawing box.
I ran my fingers over that half-opened box, the pencils spilling out: French Blue, Geranium Red. It was hard to swallow. I touched all of the pencils, the pad of paper, the sharpener.
Henry and I made four or five trips back to the car for things I had taken from Josie's house. Steam came from my mouth in small white puffs and from the chimney in larger ones. But the cold didn't bother Henry. He pranced through the snow, chasing twigs and a few crumpled leaves as if he were a kitten. He must have known what I was thinking. He sneaked a look back at me; then he sat up on a rock, perfectly still, like the old cat he was.
I'd draw that later, I thought, Henry happy in the dark, with the river just a thread curving through the snow.
It took a half hour to bring everything inside. I wrapped a blanket around Josie, and through the window I could see the car at the edge of the road. There'd be room for it in the shed, I thought, remembering the Old Man's car on one side, the truck on the other.
The truck. Totaled. Was it still there? I shook my head. “I'll be back,” I said to the sleeping Josie. “I have to put the Silver Bullet in the shed.”
You're going to drive it in? Steven asked in my head.
You taught me how, I said.
But …
I can do this.
The truck hugged one side of the shed. I walked around to the front of it and ran my fingers over the cold metal, the sharp edges, the empty holes where the lights had been. I raised my hands to my ears without thinking so I wouldn't hear the sound of the truck as it hit the trees that summer evening.
Outside a few minutes later, I turned the key in the Silver Bullet's ignition; the gas gauge was hitting Empty. Just one more bit, I begged the car, that's all I need. I sat there hesitating before I put my foot on the gas, but then I coasted along over the snow, the motor coughing, and glided into the shed—not touching the sides, not even close—braked a split second before I hit the back wall, and turned off the motor.
Ah, Steven said.
It was quiet, with only the soft whoosh of wind and the muffled sound of icy snow as it blew against the roof. I had done it. All I wanted to do now was curl up under the covers in that small green room upstairs and sleep.
I have this drawing folded carefully in my backpack. We're sitting at the table on the porch, the river in front of us, a summer rain drilling the roof above us, soaking us all that last Saturday, muddying the road, greening the grass, puckering the river.
In the picture Izzy is backing out of the screen door, balancing the cake plate in her hands. The cake was vanilla, and Izzy had gathered blue forget-me-nots to circle it.
I used the sharpest pencil (Strawberry Pink) to write the words on top of the cake: WELCOME TO THE FAMILY, HOLLY.
Izzy frowned. “I wanted to get your whole name in, but there wasn't enough room.”
The Old Man's eyes sparkled. A moment before I framed the picture in my mind, he patted my shoulder. “Hollis Woods, with us forever.”
Steven sat on the other side. I'd drawn pages of animal tracks for him, raccoon and deer, rabbit and possum … and birds, even a loon that had come up out of the water to sun itself on a rock.
“I'll probably keep them forever, Sister Loon,” he said, full of himself. “Get it?” He pointed to the loon tracks on the side of the page, nudging me under the table like a six-year-old, rattling the glasses, the cake plates.
“Steven, please.” The Old Man hadn't been happy with him all week. Nothing gigantic; little stuff. Steven had left the shed door open, so a raccoon had nested inside … probably the one whose toes were marching all over Steven's paper. Steven had left the house door open, so a bat had flown around the living room Wednesday night. He'd lost the Old Man's fishing knife, and one of the reels was probably sunk under the water somewhere downstream.
“Why don't you just try with him?” I had asked Steven the day before as we rowed around looking for it.
I could see the anger in his eyes. “You're good enough for both of us,” he had said. “That's what Pop would say.”
I leaned forward. “Is it me?” I asked. “My fault?”
He had laughed then. “Don't be silly.”
Still, I wasn't sure. I opened my mouth to tell him about me, a mountain of trouble, but before I could, he tapped my arm. “Hey.” His eyes were earnest behind his glasses. “You don't have to look like that.” He broke off a piece of holly and handed it to me. “Peace, Hollis. It's just like you. Prickly, but not bad to look at.”
I had tried to hide my smile.
Now Izzy put the cake in the center of the table. “Should we have candles?” she asked.
“Sure.” Steven grinned at me. “The works.”
“Why not?” I leaned back. I was full of myself too, thinking about calling the Old Man Pop, and Izzy Mom.
Izzy went inside to rummage through the table drawers for the candles, and Steven turned to me, saying we might walk up on the mountain after supper.
The Old Man looked at him sharply. “In the rain?”
“Don't worry.” I knew I could make the Old Man smile. “We're tougher than the rain.”
“I'm not talking about going all the way to the top,” Steven said.
We ate the cake then, the icing melting on my tongue, and I was feeling guilty because I was really the one who wanted to go up on the mountaintop.
The end of the old Hollis. Hey, world, here comes the new one.
And I wanted to go alone.
The next afternoon I went from room to room, taking my time, looking at everything. Almost everything. I didn't go into Izzy and the Old Man's bedroom. That was their private place.
Photographs filled the guest room wall, and I spent a long time looking at each one. I waited to get to the end to see if the one of me was still there.
First there was a young Izzy in a two-piece bathing suit, then the Old Man sawing down a dead tree, sawdust coloring his beard. There were several of Steven: one without his front teeth, in a bunny costume, one sitting on the hood of the truck, and one with the fish-net in his hand, his head thrown back, laughing.
And the one of me was still there. I was sharpening a pencil, with pale pink shavings falling in a pile on my drawing paper. I ran my finger over it: still there, in the row with the others, still belonging with them.
Steven's room was next, a mess of a room. Socks on the floor, a jumble of string, a couple of keys, and a photo on the dresser. A photo I couldn't even make out, blurs of greens and blues, and something in the center that might have been the boat.
Behind me Josie called, “I found boots. I'm going to wear them.”
“It's too cold to go out,” I called back. “You'll freeze.” But the outside door slammed, and I went to the window. “Josie?” I put my hand on the glass; cold air drifted in around the panes.
Josie was wearing Izzy's wading boots, which went up to her thighs. She twirled in the snow, arms out, fingers spread. It made me dizzy to watch her. After a moment she tipped over, but it was an easy fall, making me think of snow
angels. Her scarf blew across the smooth whiteness, a scrap of color.
She was up again, zigzagging, and I thought about going after her as she disappeared in back of the line of evergreens. I hurried a little, grabbing my jacket. The thermometer outside the kitchen window read five degrees, and next to the window, on the wall, the calendar was still at August.
August.
I went out the back door, calling to her. And then in that cold stillness I could hear her singing. “Over the river …”
I went after her, my feet heavy, twirling as I passed the circle she had made, singing back, “… and through the woods …”
She leaned against a small tree, staring at the thin strip of dark water that ran between the chunks of ice. “Isn't it beautiful?” I said.
“I love to walk in the snow.” She was shivering again, looking up at me, suddenly bewildered. “But why aren't we home? And what happened to Beatrice?”
I led her back into the house, into that warm room with the bright blue rugs and the huge couch. I found a robe of Izzy's and wrapped it around her. We sat by the fireplace watching the shadows dance over the walls until it grew dark outside and we slept.
In the morning points of light danced over my eyes. I raised my hand to my face; sun was melting tiny swirls of ice on the window.
Somewhere outside was a faint buzzing sound. It wasn't close—nothing to worry about—but what was it? Someone using a saw deep in the woods? A snow-mobile? The sound gradually died away, and I stood up slowly, thinking about breakfast. There were choices, thanks to Izzy: cans of pineapple juice, blackberry jam, vegetables shiny inside their glass jars, rows of Dinty Moore stew.
Izzy's treasures, not mine.
I'd pay her back someday, I told myself, pay back all of it.
Lighten up, Steven said in my head. I had to smile. That's really what he would have said.