The Cabin

by Wilder Jasinda

  Don’t, I tell her. I’m fine, I tell her.

  But I’m a shitty liar, which she’s well aware of. I’m not fine. Not at all.

  But hell, my husband died. I’ll never be fine again.

  Part III

  Redemption’s Song

  Letters From The Dead, Part One

  DING….DONGGGGGG…

  The doorbell rings, surprising me, and I nick my thumb with the whittling knife.

  “Shit,” I hiss. “Ouch—motherfucker!”

  I stick my bleeding thumb in my mouth and taste pennies as I head for the front door. It’s 8 p.m., and I can’t even begin to fathom who the fuck could be at my door, let alone at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night.

  Whoever the hell this is, he’s even taller than me, which is saying something, and he’s hunched at the shoulders, with droopy but intelligent eyes, and I’m reminded of a vampire from an old black-and-white movie.

  “Nathan Fischer?” he asks, in a slow, deep, syrupy Southern voice.

  “Yeah, that’s me. Who are you and you what d’you want?”

  “May I come in? I shall be brief.”

  “Not until I know who you are, and what you want.”

  “Understandable. First, let me apologize for the late hour on a weekend.” He withdraws a business card; it’s thick, expensive card stock, ivory in color and printed in navy blue ink trimmed with gold leaf. This is the business card of a serious attorney.

  Tomas Anton, Esq., specializing in estate law. Levine, Levine, & Anton, attorneys at law.

  “What do I want with an estate lawyer?”

  “It’s more what I want with you. I represent the estate of the late Adrian Bell.”

  “Adrian…” I swallow. “Okay. Still not following what you want with me.”

  He nods. “I understand your confusion, Mr. Fischer. Please, may I come in? What I have to say is private, and sensitive.”

  I nod, open the door and admit him. My kitchen table is my makeshift workbench, so it’s littered with curled bits of shavings, and the piece I’m working on sits in the midst of the largest pile of shavings. It’s a bird, a life-size rendering of a raven caught mid-caw, wings ruffling.

  Mr. Tomas Anton, estate attorney, ambles to the table, bends at the waist and peers at the nearly finished carving. “That is remarkable, Mr. Fischer. You are a true artisan.”

  “Thanks. It’s a hobby.”

  He has a briefcase, a slim leather thing that’s probably more accurately called an attaché. He pulls a chair away from the table, sweeps the pine shavings off with a long, elegant hand, and sits down. Props the case on his knees and pops the latches. Lifts the lid. Removes a manila folder, marked with my last name in calligraphic handwriting on the tab. Closes the lid and sets the folder on top of the case. Each movement is precise, considered.

  His eyes lift to mine. I’m standing, arms crossed, hands tucked under my armpits. “Perhaps you would like to sit down.”

  “You’re recommending?”

  He nods. “Indeed.”

  I sling a chair around, perch on it backward, arms folded over the back. “I’m listening, Mr. Anton.”

  “I will get right to the point. Mr. Bell, with whom you were friends, made rather extensive arrangements prior to his tragic passing.”

  “Extensive arrangements,” I repeat. “You said you’d get to the point. It’s been a year—like, almost exactly. So I’ll ask again—what’s this got to do with me?”

  He opens the folder. “This letter will, I believe, explain everything. But I shall provide you with a brief summary. His last wishes, which he arranged as part of his will, included the transference of ownership of a small piece of property with two cabins some ways north of here in the Appalachian Mountains. He has divided the property and deeded a portion of it to you. Lake frontage, a cabin, and a few acres.”

  I feel my brow wrinkling in shock. “Adrian gave me a cabin on a lake in the mountains?”

  “Yes, Mr. Fischer.”

  “Why now?” I shake my head. “Wills are read shortly after death, not a year later.”

  “It was part of his wishes.”

  “That I get the cabin now, a year after he died?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It would be inappropriate for me to speculate on that, but all shall be made clear in time.” He hands me the folder. Opens his case again and withdraws another stack of papers. “Sign, please. It is the deed, assuming ownership.”

  I sign.

  “He left me a cabin in the woods,” I repeat.

  “Indeed, he did.”

  “And you can’t tell me why?”

  “More accurately, I will not. It would go against the nature of his final wishes, which he contracted me to carry out.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “Read the letter, Mr. Fischer. It will clear up much, if not everything.” He latches his briefcase. “I will mail you a copy of the deed.”

  “Are there keys? An address?”

  He indicates the folder in my hands. “Everything you need is in that folder.”

  “Okay. Thanks, I guess.”

  He hesitates. “I said it would be inappropriate for me to speculate. And that is true. But this much I can say that is not speculation: Mr. Bell’s final wishes were elaborately and carefully thought out. It may feel random to you, but I assure you it is not.”

  “Okay.” I’m not sure what to say to that.

  He stands and inclines his head to me. “Thanks for seeing me this evening, Mr. Fischer. Call me if you have any questions. ”

  It’s not until after he’s gone that I think of a question. Who owns the other half, the other cabin? Well, all shall be made clear, he said. I guess we’ll see.

  I take the folder to the couch.

  Inside is a letter, handwritten in a fountain pen on linen stationary, with Adrian’s name across the top.

  Nathan,

  Out of the blue, I know. On purpose.

  You’re still mourning Lisa. I could see it on your face, hear it in your voice, when we sat down to drinks that last time. And yeah, buddy, I knew then that I was dying. I was in denial still, to a point, but I knew. I was picking your brain, that day. I hope I didn’t cause you pain with my questions, but I needed to hear the answers from someone who knew.

  I was coming to grips with understanding that I’d be leaving Nadia behind. How could I prepare her for it? What would it be like, for her, after I’m gone? Will she be okay?

  I’m gonna say some stuff now that might piss you off, and I’m sorry in advance. Know I’m coming from a place of love, here, okay?

  I wanted better for her than I saw in you. You were bitter. Lonely. Angry. Sad. You spent more time working than you did anything else, because it was easier. And then that became a habit, became your life. Your new normal. You’ve been on, from what you’ve told me, one date. Maybe two, since she passed? I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. It’s a question of moving on, Nate. I asked you, that day over scotch, if you’d moved on. If you could. And you said, boiling it all down, no.

  Fuck, dude. Hit me with a hammer from the grave, why don’t you. My eyes sting, my chest hurts, my heart sits heavy in my stomach. I haven’t moved on. I can’t. I don’t know how.

  Nate, I need your help. And hopefully, in helping me, you’ll help yourself. Or I’ll help you. It’s hard to know how to phrase all this. I’m writing this at my desk, and I know I’ve got weeks, months at most to live, and I’m just…frantic. Desperate to do something for her.

  For my Nadia.

  She’s going to be worse than you. I wasn’t there when your wife died, but I can imagine you took it pretty hard. Spent a while at the bottom of a bottle, and then dragged your pieces together such that you could go back to work, and eventually just found enough distance from the whole thing that you feel like you’ve healed as much as you ever will.

  And, like I said, I want better for Nadia.

  She deserves life. Real LIFE, not j
ust a macabre, zombie half-life. Not just working till exhaustion kills emotion, not just trudging one grief-stricken step after another through a cardboard approximation of life, from workday to workday.

  I want her to live, Nathan. But she won’t know how. Like you, she’ll be stuck in her grief.

  She’ll mourn me, and her mourning will consume her. She won’t see the stars at night. She won’t see a sunrise, or a sunset.

  She won’t know the comfort of an embrace.

  She will go into mourning, and never return from that dark land.

  What does this have to do with Tomas Anton whom I assume just left your home? What does this have to do with a cabin in the woods?

  Go fishing, Nathan.

  Pack some clothing, turn down the job offer you have waiting. Bring your carving and whittling tools. Drive to the address below, and stay there. Fish. Whittle. Watch sunrises. Drink coffee and watch fish jump.

  Live.

  Take the time for you. You need it. You deserve it. You’re a damn good man, Nathan Fischer. The best. I enjoyed our talks over Scotch more than I think I ever really let on.

  But as you fish and whittle and live, ask yourself one question. Would Lisa, your dear departed wife, want you to live as you’ve been living? Alone, and lonely? Or would she want you to find happiness?

  Really ask yourself that question.

  When you get to the cabin, you’ll find something else I’ve left for you. Something even more important than the cabin or this letter.

  Try to trust me.

  Yours,

  The Ghost of Adrian Bell

  P.S.: Sorry. Gallows humor. I couldn’t resist.

  I look at a five-by-eight notecard with two keys taped to it, one a house key, the other I’m not sure of—it’s small, with a round head and a simple cut. For a lockbox, maybe. Below the keys is an address, which a Google search shows is, as Mr. Anton indicated, way up in the Appalachians.

  I consider.

  But not for long.

  Because goddamn it, but he’s right. I’ve not been living, just staying alive. Moping through one day after another. Waiting to age out of life, maybe.

  I don’t need to sit on a lake to know the answer to his question, either. I can hear Lisa in my head right now, and I think she’s been screaming this at me for years.

  Quit moping, ya dumb lunk! Yeah, I loved you, you loved me. Yeah, I fuckin’ died. She had a potty mouth, my Lisa. If I was alive, I’d expect to be your one and only. But I ain’t. I’m dead. Dead and gone, and you buried me, and now you gotta live. LIVE, motherfucker. Be happy.

  Fuck.

  I pack—I don’t need much. Some jeans, some T-shirts, some sweaters, some underwear and socks, the usual. My old leather roll-up case of antique woodworking tools. My fishing supplies—tackle box, a few fishing rods, waders, net, all that stuff. I toss it all in the backseat of my truck, along with a few things in a cooler, and I head out.

  This cabin is hours away; it’s just now ten at night, but fuck it. I don’t sleep much anymore anyway.

  * * *

  My tires crunch on gravel, and then the gravel gives way to grass. I pull to a stop, and my headlights illuminate cattails waving in a breeze, dark water rippling against the shore, a small dock, wood planks and four posts, with a tin fishing boat tied to the post at the end of the dock.

  Moths swirl madly in the twin spears of my headlights.

  To my left, I can make out the small bulk of a building. My headlights only cast the dimmest glow on it, but I know it is made of logs, and I can see a few steps leading up to a porch. The rest is in shadow.

  I shut off my engine, step out. Stand in the cool of a late summer night in the Georgia mountains. Crickets sing. A frog goes rrrrrrUPP in the distance. I look up—stars in an endless multitude, outshone only by a bright silver half-moon.

  A bat flitters across the moon, chasing moths.

  I take a long, slow, deep breath. My chest aches—I don’t know why.

  Now that I’ve opened my mind to it—or maybe my heart—all I can hear is Lisa’s voice.

  Now you’re ready to heal, ain’tcha. Boy, you been wallowing in some fake-ass shit, and you know it. Time to move on, big ol’ lover boy.

  “Okay, Lisa,” I whisper, my voice harsh and loud in the silence. “Okay. I hear you. I’ll try.”

  The automatic headlights of my truck shut off, and I’m wrapped up in darkness. Now only the moon and stars shed light, and after a moment of standing in the darkness the night songs grow louder.

  The sky is mammoth. Out here, in the mountains, an hour from the nearest real town, there are more stars than dark space between. Down low, the trees on the far end of the lake obscure the stars in spires and clumps, and there’s the faint chooonk-clop of waves against the dock posts.

  I have the key in my pocket, and I fish it out. My shoes plonk on the old wooden steps, two of them. I click on the flashlight on my phone, a sudden burst of white light revealing an old brass door handle, the area around the lock scratched into faded graphite scribbles. The door is pine, with four panes of leaded glass, dust-clouded. My cell phone light reflects garishly off the glass. I unlock the door and twist the knob, push in. I fumble along the wall next to the door and find a light switch; a handmade chandelier turns on, made from braided silver strands and sections of stained glass. It’s an odd choice for lighting in a rustic fishing cabin, but it’s pretty, and a work of art, lovingly crafted.

  I turn in a slow circle taking everything in.

  On the back wall there’s an avocado-colored refrigerator and an antique gas range in a darker forest green. The counters, a few feet of them on either side of a porcelain farm sink, to the right of the door are slate, rough-hewn, probably locally quarried and handmade. The floors underneath are pine—they’re solid, squeak-free, restained within the past ten years and well cared for, but old, very old. Like much else I’m seeing, the floors are handcrafted, and by someone skilled in woodworking well before the time of electric saws and sanders.

  The walls are bare log, with a few antique decorations: a Coca-Cola sign, some snowshoes, a two-man saw, an old fishing net. Over the door hangs a muzzleloader, the barrel octagonal, the stock made from a dark, polished hardwood.

  “Nice,” I murmur. Not so much to myself as to the spirit of Adrian.

  It’s clean, so someone’s been here to freshen up.

  There’s a door on the back wall, left of the range, leading to the bedroom. The wall left of the front door is dominated by the fireplace, made from giant river stones and boulders, with a thick pine mantle over it. On the mantle is a small envelope, and within, a sheet from a legal pad, in Adrian’s handwriting.

  I open it; it’s from Adrian.

  Welcome home, Nathan.

  This place was built in 1899 by a man named Roger Klupinsky. He was a craftsman, as I’m sure you can see. He built the whole place, top to bottom, with his own two hands. Quarried the stone for the counters, cut down and worked the trees for the walls and the floors, everything. His great-grandson did some retouching a decade or so ago, refinished the floor, put on the metal roof, updated the wiring and plumbing. The appliances are genuine antiques, but refurbished. The muzzleloader works, there’s powder and shot and all that stuff in the closet in the bedroom, I’m told.

  The other key is for a lockbox at the bank in town. It’s in your name. Go get the contents of that box. Meet you there, partner!

  Unsigned.

  It’s like a scavenger hunt, eh, Adrian? All right, I’m game. I lost track of the hours it took to get here, and I’m wiped. Maybe I’ll even sleep.

  The bedroom is tiny, just big enough for a queen bed, again handmade by the same hands. A newer mattress, though, and I spy bedding in a large zippered bag in the closet on the shelf. I make the bed, and then check out the bathroom. Tinier yet. Toilet, pedestal sink, mirrored medicine cabinet. Subway tile shower, a glass door, the enclosure barely big enough for someone my size. Thank god, though, the showerhea
d is hung high enough I won’t have to do the limbo to get under it.

  Home.

  Huh.

  I collapse on the bed, barely kick off my shoes and climb under the blankets, fully dressed, before falling asleep.

  I dream of Lisa.

  She’s standing in a pool of light, as if she’s on a stage under a spotlight. She’s wearing the dress I last saw her in, lying in the coffin in the church. It’s her favorite dress, she called it her LBD. She wore it whenever we went on dates, because the sight of her in that dress made me plumb nuts. It just hugged her curves exactly right, wasn’t revealing but was certainly sexy. In death, it hurt to look at her in it.

  In the dream, it hits me like every other time I saw her wear it on date night—a punch to the gut.

  Skin is fair, a freckle here and there. The spotlight seems to illuminate those fine hairs on her forearms, which she hated but which for some odd reason were just so damned cute and endearing to me.

  I take a step toward her, wanting to hold her. My feet are stuck to the floor, like I’m sunk to the calves in rubber cement. I can pull at them and they move a little but won’t come free.

  “Lisa,” I say. “Wait.”

  She smiles sadly at me. “Time to let me go, lover boy.” That was her pet name for me.

  “No, I can’t.”

  “You gotta, babe. Time to live.”

  “I’m living.”

  “Hell no, you ain’t. You’ve been living for me, lover boy. I’m dead. Time to live for you.”

  She’s fading. Takes a step back. The pool of light fades.

  “Lisa! Don’t go.” I want to cry, but I can’t. I never could.

  She blows a kiss at me, from the shadows beyond the dimming pool of light. “I’ll always love you.”

  “Lisa!”

  “Time to let go, lover boy.”

  Her words echo.

  I wake up sweating, thirsty. Shaking. I haven’t dreamed of Lisa since right after she died. I used to have a recurring nightmare of her accident. I didn’t see it happen, but I saw one like it, once, before I met Lisa. A semi swerved, crossed the centerline, and hit a minivan head-on. I’d been a volunteer firefighter at the time, so I went to help. Wasn’t anything to help—and that sight stayed with me. My brain used that to supply a recurring nightmare of having been there when Lisa died, being on scene. Seeing her crushed and broken body…