by Zoje Stage
Shaw’s physical attraction to her had always been strong, but that was only one element of her intrigue; by example, she kept him motivated to keep forging ahead with his difficult, and sometimes elusive, creative goals. He’d enjoyed being a stay-at-home dad, but since he’d found oil painting—and his subject matter—his focus had realigned. At thirty-eight, he considered himself in his prime. He’d lived enough to have real experiences to draw on, and he’d explored everything; at last, his talents and interests were clear.
She wasn’t accustomed to that feeling yet, that he had important work to do and hers was finished. Even if they’d stayed in a city, it might have been hard for her to figure out what to do next. But here? It was never that she didn’t want to encourage him, or take a step back to give him his moment to shine. But his plan meant embarking on an entirely new life. Some of her lumpy misgivings had been selfish; what would she do out there in the wilderness?
Under the bathwater, her hands made fists around invisible stones, rubbing, rubbing. She’d caught herself doing it, worrying those invisible stones, many times over the preceding weeks. Every day she’d spent at Walker and Julie’s, the thought surfaced: We don’t belong here. Shaw might once have been Mr. Outdoorsy, but for going on two decades, his “survival” had required trendy coffee and a choice of Vietnamese restaurants. He liked gallery openings and the IFC Center. He experimented with his facial hair and wore garish colors with spectacular aplomb. Once upon a time he’d left Plattsburgh precisely because he was too weird for his flannel-and-jeans-wearing family. Walker, all grown up, didn’t tease him anymore and embraced his return to the North Country. But in the face of such isolation, Orla understood this new way of life was something they couldn’t play at. Shaw had accepted Walker’s gift of two of their father’s long guns—a thirty-ought-six rifle with a telescopic sight and a double-barreled shotgun—and planned to hunt. He swore he still remembered how to dress a deer, something he’d done his entire childhood, but Orla only knew him as a man with hands reddened by paint, not blood.
There would be real-world consequences if they ran low on food—no running down to the corner bodega, no ordering in from whatever restaurant they craved. And what if one of the children got seriously hurt? How long would they have to wait, or drive, for help? They’d prepared well, but that didn’t quell the anxiety.
It didn’t feel right.
It didn’t feel right, and she couldn’t explain it to Shaw, this hunch. (This woman’s intuition?) He would say she just wasn’t used to it. And he would be right. He would remind her of her early days in New York City, a teenager taking classes, auditioning, overwhelmed on a daily basis. But she’d found her place, made her home. That’s what he expected of her here and she didn’t want to let him down, so she kept the unnamable misgivings to herself.
She lurched to her feet, letting the cooling bathwater cascade down her body. She’d committed to Shaw and her family. Her children needed her strength—her flexibility—and she needed to demonstrate the fine art of being adaptable. With more resolve than she’d felt all day, Orla grabbed a towel and quickly dried off.
Her sleep sweats were comfy and warm. The pants left her ankles exposed, but the sleeves hung over her hands, the result of her constantly pulling the fabric over them and balling it into her fists. The design on the front commemorated the Empire City Contemporary Ballet’s thirty-fifth anniversary, the letters crumbled and faded, worn from age and washing. When she emerged from the bedroom, Shaw was quietly closing Eleanor Queen’s door, having just said his good-nights.
“I’ll be in my studio,” he whispered and threw Orla a kiss. “Roomy!” He opened his arms, gleeful, and the word echoed in the stairwell as he went down.
She headed to Tycho’s room, to the right of hers and Shaw’s and farthest from the stairs. The mothball scent from its most recent life as a closet lingered, but the bunk bed just fit, leaving two feet of walk space beside it and enough room to open the door. Orla went in cautiously, and, sure enough, he lay snuggled on the bottom bunk, fast asleep, his stuffed moose clutched in his hand.
She stood by the window for a moment looking out toward the garage and beyond, taking in the eerie glow of the moon curtained by clouds, and the slow descent of fat flakes of snow. Though Shaw and the real estate agent had told her which direction each side of the house faced, she couldn’t remember. She hadn’t shaken old habits—to her, “north” meant Harlem, the Bronx; “south” meant Tribeca, Battery Park. Maybe the sun would steal into Tycho’s room in the morning, pry open his eyes with molten fingers. Maybe it wouldn’t bother him; he possessed the young child’s gift of sleeping deeply in odd positions and strange circumstances. Still, they needed to get blinds or curtains for all the windows. She was planning on doing a lot of online shopping come Monday afternoon, after their satellite internet and phone were installed. It would be a relief to be reconnected to civilization, with constant access to the outside world and streaming entertainment.
The internet phone was really just a backup, another safety precaution, as the satellite should provide a more reliable connection than the spotty service they got with their cell phones. Once they were online again, Eleanor Queen could get back to “school”—they were online-homeschooling her for the full year while they explored their options in Saranac Lake Village. Changing schools would be hard enough for her without her jumping in somewhere midyear. They’d decided to ease their sensitive daughter through the changes as softly as they could.
Orla suppressed a laugh when she turned around and saw that her son had “helped” unpack by tossing every single one of his stuffed animals and miscellaneous toys onto the top bunk, where his sister used to sleep. In the coming days she’d dig out his colorful milk crates and help him get organized. Or…his toys were off the floor, and there was barely room to store his clothes. If Tycho liked it that way, maybe she’d let him leave his mound as it was. She knelt beside him and kissed his cheek, tucked the striped comforter over his exposed arm so he wouldn’t get cold. The house was warm, but they’d lower the thermostat for the night. “Good night, sweet boy.”
She left his door cracked so the hallway light could guide him to the bathroom if he woke in the night. Though likely he’d call for one of them; he was easily frightened upon awakening in an unfamiliar place. Orla passed the master bedroom—big enough for a queen-size bed and their dresser—and the bathroom and rapped softly on Eleanor Queen’s door before opening it.
The window in her daughter’s room faced the other side of the property and gave her a view of a narrow strip of yard and a wall of trees. Her new bed, dressed up with all her new flowery bedding, was set up in the corner. Beside it was a little white table onto which she’d clipped her lamp with its rainbow-y holograms dotted around the pink and purple shade. It had been clipped to her headboard when she’d slept on the bunk above Tycho.
Eleanor Queen sat with her pillow at her back rereading one of her favorite books. At her cousins’, she’d read from their shelves, adventure and science books meant for slightly older readers. Orla’s left fist gripped her worry stone, muscles clenching around nothing but her own anxiety. How would they fare without a neighborhood library? Eleanor Queen was an avid reader, but it didn’t bode well that she still preferred her old books to the e-reader her grandparents had gotten her for her birthday. She, Shaw, and Eleanor Queen had spent hours loading books onto it so she wouldn’t run out of reading material before they got fully situated.
Orla sat on the bed beside her. “You don’t like your e-reader?”
The girl shrugged. “That’s for when I run out of paper books. Don’t worry—”
“I’m not worried.”
“Yes you are.” As Eleanor Queen reached out and took her mother’s fist, Orla realized what she’d been doing and relaxed her hand. “There’s nothing like being in bed with a big book on your lap.”
Orla laughed. “Spoken like a fifty-year-old librarian.” She kissed her daughter’s forehea
d and swept the hair away from her face. Her daughter looked like her, the same coloring, though her limbs and features weren’t as exaggerated. Tycho, with his unruly hair and wan complexion, looked like Shaw. They talked about it in private moments, how they each had a child who favored them. The physical resemblances felt important, like a reminder that the children might have inherited other qualities of theirs too. Part of their parenting strategy was to remember how they’d felt as children, what they’d wanted, how they’d wished to be treated.
“Lots of big changes,” Orla said. “Does it feel weird not to climb a ladder to get into bed?”
Eleanor Queen grinned with her lips tight over her bulging front teeth. “I like the walls.”
“The color?”
She nodded, as if embarrassed by being so pleased. They’d painted all four walls a bright turquoise. In the room she’d shared with Tycho, they’d had to compromise: two pale green walls for him; two lilac-colored walls for her. But she didn’t like purple as much anymore.
“Are you getting used to being away from the city?”
Eleanor Queen shrugged. “Some of it’s nice. But it feels weird.”
“Weird how?” Weird-bad? Weird-scary?
“Weird like there’s nowhere to go.”
Orla laughed. “Yes, my love, you and I both are going to need some time to adjust to that. But we will. And we’ll find magical things—nature is full of wonders; that’s what Papa says. I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to finding amazing things.”
“Me too. But maybe they won’t really be magical—like, not real magic. They’ll be real things. Different things than what’s in the city.”
“Yes, I think you’re absolutely right.” She rubbed her nose against her daughter’s, making Eleanor Queen giggle. “My wise girl. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Good night.”
“G’ night.”
Orla started to close the door, then stopped. “Want me to leave it cracked?”
“No, that’s okay…” The girl’s voice wavered with uncertainty, though Orla saw her determination to overcome her fear.
“I’m sorry your night-light wasn’t in the box, but we’ll find it. Why don’t I just leave it cracked for tonight?”
“Okay.” Eleanor Queen grinned with relief and dug her nose back into her book.
Orla blew her a kiss, and left the door ajar on her way out. She didn’t have to tell Eleanor Queen when to shut off her light; her daughter would do it when she was tired, and Orla trusted her judgment. Her daughter seemed content enough, the missing night-light notwithstanding, but Orla couldn’t so easily shake off what she’d seen earlier in her face, before Orla got spooked by the wind. What lurked in a forest? Ravenous animals? Escaped convicts? They had no immediate neighbors, so in theory, no one should be close enough to see them, spy on them. But her city self (her biased-by-stupid-movies self) thought some number of people who chose to live in the boonies were bordering on mutants. Inbreeding cannibals and the like.
Little fingernails tickled her spine as she freaked herself out with her thoughts; she wished she’d already bought coverings for the windows. What if something—someone—was out there right now? Watching her move from room to room?
She started down the spiraling wooden steps but stopped after three and paused on the triangular landing. The window there looked out toward the back of the property, but the lower view was blocked by the first-floor kitchen’s gently slanted roof—an extension that had been added in the 1960s. The snow had stopped falling for now, and the moon, free of clouds, lit up the white ground and highlighted the trees’ talons as branches swayed in a silent wind. And the giant was out there—the solitary eastern white pine (Shaw had confirmed it)—its height almost freakish. What if it had grown so big by gobbling up smaller trees? Hadn’t she once read Tycho such a story? What if it changed form under the cloak of darkness and tiptoed around the land at night, crushing rabbits and mice under its feet?
An owl called and her body responded, muscles tightening with bitterness; she didn’t understand these creatures. Honking cars made sense. Neighbors screaming in Chinese made sense. She’d never thought she’d miss such mundane, once annoying sounds.
She’d been surprised when Shaw so readily accepted the guns from Walker. But after a short argument, whispered in Julie’s tidy mudroom, they’d agreed Shaw would purchase a gun locker. It was terrifying to think of the children having access to such deadly weapons. But maybe he’d understood something she hadn’t: the need for them.
As she hurried down the rest of the stairs, she called out to him, “Babe? Do you know where the guns are?”
5
Orla glanced around the living room, with its recently painted gray walls and white trim, on her way to Shaw’s studio. They’d thought the paint would mask or absorb the aroma of wood smoke. They hadn’t used the wood-burning stove yet—squat and animalistic, its territory a corner of the room upon a bed of bricks. But the decades of its use lingered in the hardwood floors, the ceilings. Their sleeper-sofa and ugly-but-comfy plaid chair, end tables, lamps, and bookcase were in place, along with the currently lifeless smart TV. But a large percentage of their unopened boxes were stacked against the interior wall, filled with books, framed pictures, knickknacks, random clothing, and most of the kitchen stuff. Her eyes appraised it all, seeking among the boxes one long enough to hold the guns.
Shaw’s door was wide open and she found him at the front-facing window, gazing outward. Though Eleanor Queen might physically resemble her mother, in other ways—her sensitivity—she was very much her father’s daughter. The look on Shaw’s face was like Eleanor Queen’s that afternoon, trying to decode their new surroundings.
“Did you hear me?” she asked softly, hesitant to startle him from his trance.
“Yes, no…” He blinked and turned to her.
“The guns.” Orla couldn’t quite decide if she was being paranoid. But a practical part of her knew the search had a valid purpose. “We don’t have the locker yet.”
“No, no, don’t worry. They’re in here.” Shaw nodded toward the studio closet and reached out to take her hand. “I figured the kids wouldn’t be in here anyway, so they’re up on the shelf for now. I can get one in Plattsburgh in a few days, or order one next week.”
Orla nodded, not relieved. She couldn’t really imagine either of her children dragging over a step stool to root around for a weapon in their father’s personal space. But how many families had made similar assumptions and been proved wrong? Another part of her didn’t want the guns hidden at all but stashed on hooks above the front door—wasn’t that how they did it in Westerns? So the hero could grab one when the bad guys rode up?
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Shaw placed a hand on one of her cheeks and kissed the other, his body pressed like a shadow against hers.
“I don’t feel…completely safe,” she admitted.
“What do you think’s gonna happen?” He asked the question with gentle concern.
She shrugged. “Bears?”
They stepped back, arms around each other’s waist, and stood facing his studio. Orla’s eyes wandered around, taking in the progress of his unpacking. Maybe it was all the extra space, but the new place was already having one positive effect on him: everything was so tidy and well organized. His guitars, an acoustic and a hollow-body electric, sentenced to a life of confinement in their apartment, now stood on display in one corner beside his small amp. He’d set his easel next to the front-facing window and a blank canvas stood at the ready. His paintings were leaning behind the door, their images toward the wall. His petite, once-cluttered desk sat by the smaller window, and set atop it were his laptop and a half-empty box marked PAINTING STUFF. On the floor, still sealed, was a box labeled PHOTOS ’N’ STUFF and two liquor boxes that she knew held his CDs.
Back in their old apartment, his “stuff” had been crammed into every available space in the living room, which,
true to its name, was where they’d done all their living—eating, watching, reading, creating, playing, sleeping. Here, his things didn’t need to be stashed on top of bookcases or stacked in a corner like a Jenga game. Orla gasped, seeing something for the first time: No wonder he’d struggled to stick with things; their home had been the opposite of inspiring. It had been a mess.
“This is great,” she said. A tiny bit jealous, she wanted to put a portable barre on her online-shopping list. Maybe they could set it up in the living room and she’d have a place to do pliés, ronds de jambe, développés. While he developed his craft, she didn’t want to lose her finely tuned body. “I can see it. The light will be great during the day…this is the room—the space—you’ve needed.”
“It is.” He grinned, then grew serious again as he looked at her. “Are you really worried about bears?”
“Maybe. I saw that list. On Julie and Walker’s fridge. All the animals and their hunting seasons. Bears. Bobcats. Coyotes.”
“Well, I’ve got my license; I can shoot them if they get too close. And there are lots of harmless animals too. Deer. Geese. Frogs.” He gave her a little squeeze. A grin. Another peck on the cheek. But his efforts to relieve her worries didn’t work. Orla’s gaze remained fixed on the front window, on the dark mysteries lurking beyond the thin membrane. What had he sensed out there? The same thing their daughter had? “You’re really worried,” he said.
He stepped into her line of sight, and she returned to the present, the room.
“I just don’t…this is all foreign to me. Am I going to walk out the door and find a bear in the yard? Are people going to be hunting on our property? Is it safe for the kids to play outside?”
“Whoa, whoa, hold up. This is the place where it’s safe. This is where no one gets mugged. Pedestrians don’t get run over by asshole drivers. Construction cranes don’t fall over and crush people; buildings don’t collapse. And Homeland Security isn’t crawling everywhere with armed guards. I know you’re not used to it, but this—this isn’t what’s frightening about the world. Okay?” He was so lovingly sincere.