The Winter Road

by Caron Todd

  SHE TRIED CALLING first, but got no answer. Twenty minutes later there was still a busy signal and again twenty minutes after that. She couldn’t imagine Matthew having such a long conversation. She decided the telephone must be off the hook. So, only slightly uncomfortable about dropping in, she turned up unannounced again and wasn’t surprised by Matthew’s lack of enthusiasm when he opened the door.

  “Emily.” He looked and sounded neither pleased nor displeased. “Come in. I’ll warn you, it’s a sauna in here.”

  There was hardly room for both of them on the landing. She slipped past him and went up to the kitchen with him on her heels. The door to the basement was ajar. He pushed it shut as he went by.

  “The plants,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Daniel’s plants are gone.”

  “Oh, those. They were half-dead when I got here. I tossed them.” He reached into the fridge. “If you stay for more than a minute you’ll need hydration. Water, juice, coffee?”

  “Water, thanks.” Best not to ask how the garden was doing. She hoped Daniel wasn’t expecting his nephew to be out there with a hose each day.

  “I’ve been sleeping in the basement,” Matthew said, pouring two glasses of water. “It’s too hot everywhere else. I don’t know why my uncle doesn’t get an air conditioner.”

  “He doesn’t like the noise.”

  “Is that why?” Matthew led the way into the living room, where a fan on the coffee table hummed steadily, moving from side to side. “You probably know him better than I do.”

  Away from the gentle air currents the desk was open, with photographs spread out and folders stacked in a pile. Emily glanced at a basic family tree taped to the wall. Was that all he had accomplished? She could have given him most of those names herself.

  “I do know him well. It makes me feel as if I know you and then—”

  Matthew raised his eyebrows inquiringly, waiting for her to go on.

  “Then I realize I don’t at all.”

  He gave a quick smile. “Maybe a little.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’ve upset you somehow. I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “You didn’t upset me.”

  “Emily, I may not know my uncle very well, but you’re not difficult to read.”

  “Thanks.”

  “That wasn’t meant to be an insult. I mean you’re honest and—”

  “Transparent.” She tossed the word out, testing it. He didn’t contradict her.

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” he asked.

  “Simple and boring and—”

  “No, no, no. Complex and fascinating.” His eyes were sparkling now. Great. She wasn’t trying to amuse him. He went on, “But I do value transparency. I know it isn’t fair. It isn’t a quality I have.”

  “All right. Since you value transparency, I’ll admit I’m very slightly upset.”

  “Because?”

  “Because you confuse me.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “By not being transparent!” She waited, but he stayed as inscrutable as ever. “You must know how hot and cold you are, how you push and pull.”

  That made it sound as if they had a relationship. They didn’t. He didn’t owe her an explanation. Circumstances had brought him to Three Creeks and for some reason, while he was here, they continued to seek each other out.

  “I wish I could be clear about what we’re doing,” she said. “That’s all. We have moments when we seem to get close, and the next thing I know you’ve gone back to the way you were the day we met. A week ago today—can you believe it?”

  “That’s still on your mind?”

  “Don’t you know how…unwelcoming you were?”

  “I didn’t mean to be. I’d had a long trip.”

  “In a suit.”

  “What?”

  “You wore a suit on a three-day drive.”

  “What’s this, some kind of rural snobbery? Men in suits are—what? Untrustworthy? Weak?”

  She thought of him standing in Daniel’s doorway, the formal white shirt against tanned skin, energy palpable but held in check. “It’s impractical.”

  “I had some meetings on the way here. The suit seemed like a good idea.”

  “You haven’t had a three-day drive today. Or yesterday.”

  He raised his hands in a frustrated gesture. “Emily, I’m sorry. I was working when you got here—last week and today. It took me a few minutes to refocus. And yesterday we were all reeling from the break-in.”

  If he’d been reeling, he’d hidden it well. “That’s all?”

  “Of course that’s all.”

  She took a breath. He really didn’t seem to know how cold he’d been. “I didn’t come to fight.” She smiled apologetically. “I came to invite you to the lake.”

  “The quiet, secret one? It’s an appealing idea. Is your mother going?”

  “She hates the beach. It’s right up there with thieves in the house.”

  “Then why don’t we check the books instead? If it’s all right with her.”

  “We’re choosing between sand and surf or a hot house and dusty books? It’s a tough one, Matthew.” She got the feeling he would really rather appraise her mother’s collection. “Books it is. And we’ll have lunch.”

  “Don’t prepare anything this time. I’ll bring tins. What do you like, spaghetti or ravioli?”

  “Why not both? We’ll have a buffet.”

  He smiled, his warmth back. This time his pleasure was easy to read.

  BEFORE MATTHEW ARRIVED Emily discussed with her mother the possibility of appraising the book collection as a first step toward insuring it. Julia didn’t say much in response but when Matthew was ready to start her opinion of the project became clear. They dropped the idea and went to prepare lunch.

  They each opened one tin and began heating the contents, while Julia paced nearby. These days agitation was always close to the surface.

  She sighed. “I’ll never be finished.”

  Emily looked up from the ravioli. “Finished?”

  “Every time a new catalog comes there’s something new. Newly published or newly found.” Her voice was tight, with pressure behind the words. “Now there’s this Herculaneum.”

  “I saw that in Saturday’s paper,” Matthew said.

  “So now what? How many books will there be?”

  Emily looked questioningly at Matthew. “I didn’t see the article.”

  “It was about a huge library in a city near Pompeii—”

  “Herculaneum,” Julia said impatiently.

  “It got caught by the volcano, too. Archeologists uncovered the library years ago, but the papyri inside were scorched absolutely black.” He took some bowls from the cupboard and began spooning out the spaghetti. “Now there’s a new technology that might make it possible to read them, in spite of the damage. People are excited, because who knows? Some of the ancient world’s lost manuscripts could be there.”

  Julia nodded emphatically. “Important manuscripts.”

  “But why is it a problem, Mom?”

  “The shelves. They’re full.”

  Matthew handed her a bowl. “Why don’t I build some more while I’m here? I can’t do as nice a job as your husband did, but a bit of paint will hide the imperfections.”

  “What kind of imperfections?”

  “I don’t know, but there’s bound to be some.”

  “The shelves can’t slant. The books won’t sit on slanting shelves.”

  “I wouldn’t make them slant.”

  “And no rough patches on the wood.”

  “I’ll sand it smooth.”

  “The edges need to meet. In the corners. No gaps.”

  “I can do that. I think.”

  With a long sigh of satisfaction, Julia picked up her spoon. “There’s room on the staircase wall.”

  “I’m afraid more shelves will have to wait,” Emily said. “Until fall, when I go back to
work.” The rent check, even if it came soon, wasn’t intended for extras.

  Julia muttered, “We don’t have the money. That’s what she told me.”

  “What if I got wood from the outbuildings?”

  “That wouldn’t be fair to you,” Emily said. “You’re busy with your family history.”

  “Not all that busy.” He smiled. “I’d enjoy it. You know how I feel about genealogy.”

  EVEN IF Julia didn’t want Matthew to assess her books, she didn’t mind talking to him about them. Emily sat on the sidelines listening, wondering why her mother was so much more comfortable with him than with most people. Was it his voice? Most of the time he spoke quietly, and in spite of his reserve, with a warm tone that was easy on the ears. He listened calmly, too, without fidgeting or insisting on eye contact.

  Soon Julia got on to one of her favorite times, the Enlightenment, and started pulling out books to show him.

  “This is my Voltaire. Not a first edition. A nineteenth-century English translation.” The book rested on her open hands. “It belonged to my father’s father’s mother. Do you know about Voltaire’s mistress?”

  “I don’t know much at all about him,” Matthew said.

  “Gabrielle-Emilie de Breteuil, marquise du Châtelet. Born 1706. Died 1749. All she was supposed to do was get married. Be entertaining at court.”

  “What did she do instead?”

  “She did those things. She also studied mathematics and physics, even though she had to build her own lab to do it. She translated Isaac Newton’s work from Latin to French. Not word for word, accepting it all. She challenged one of his ideas. An eighteenth-century woman challenged Newton. Now they say she was right. She completed the book, then she died. Complications of childbirth.”

  “A first edition of that book would be valuable.”

  She nodded, her body tight with feeling. “Nobody wants to sell it. I looked. To have it, this woman’s thoughts. From that time.”

  Julia never spoke so expressively, or at such length. If she could, why didn’t she more often? Matthew’s patience, his quietness must have given her time to sort out what she wanted to say, to say it with some expectation of being understood.

  “Only to have them?” he asked. “You’re talking as if the book is a box of ideas to keep. Rather than a resource for learning.”

  Julia smiled softly. Sheepishly, maybe. Pleased. She nodded. “That’s it.”

  “A box of ideas?”

  “That’s it.”

  MATTHEW RINSED OUT his teacup. The two women were putting away lunch dishes, Emily as if she didn’t mind where they went, Julia slowly and precisely, making sure the bowls were stacked in a perfect tower. While they were distracted by the task it might be a good time to bounce a few questions off them. Nothing subtle. He wanted to see how they reacted to some potentially sensitive ideas.

  “Have you ever been up North, Julia?”

  The bowls still had her attention. “What do you mean by ‘north’?”

  “Wherever that mystical area is that people are always talking about. Clear cold water, dancing lights in the night sky. Blueberries and bannock. Caribou. That North.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Virginia Marsh was talking about a couple on their honeymoon who want to drive up to Churchill. Only problem is they don’t seem to be aware there aren’t roads going that far. I guess if it was winter they’d be all right.”

  “Oh, the winter roads.” Emily hung up her tea towel. “I’ve heard of those.”

  “My uncle told me about them,” Matthew said. “A crew packs down snow, clears trees, waits for thick ice to form on the lakes. Then people can drive in places they’d sink into or drown in most of the year.”

  “It sounds dangerous.”

  “You’ve never ridden on one?”

  She gave him a look, amused and maybe a little bit annoyed. “Are you mocking me, Matthew?”

  “You’re going to have to take a holiday, that’s all there is to it. Try something new, do something that surprises you. You know what you might like? Seeing the North by cat train.”

  He was almost sure Julia stiffened. Emily just looked curious. “What’s a cat train?”

  “I’ve only seen pictures. They’re tractors fitted with caterpillar treads, pulling open sleds and boxcars on skis. They used winter roads, mostly carried freight, sometimes passengers. Picture a bunkhouse traveling five miles per hour at forty below.”

  “And that would be a holiday?”

  “You could probably find out more about them from your mom. She has books about everything.”

  “I don’t. I have a book about the invention of the steam engine. And one about the building of the CPR. Nothing about cat trains.”

  Matthew wondered if he was imagining a slight return of agitation. He couldn’t bring himself to push her. “Think I should start looking for wood?”

  She frowned. “Looking for it? Used wood?”

  “That’s what we agreed, isn’t it? Used wood in good shape, or wood that’s been stored under cover.”

  “All right.” When he was nearly out the door she added, surprising him, “Thank you.”

  From the shade of the caraganas the dog glowered. The cat, friendlier, followed him to the garage. Its walls were exposed 2x4’s crossed by 1x6 boards. The ceiling joists were exposed, too, and used for storage. No hiding places here. He read the date etched into the cement floor—1965. Poured long before the relevant time.

  He moved on to the storehouse, a much older building. The floor was cracked and heaving. No attic or enclosed area here, but a non-weight-bearing dividing wall seemed to have been added later. There were more storage boxes than he could check in the time he had today.

  The barn was next, through the door into the meadow where Emily had taken him walking. Open doors and empty stalls. Enclosed walls. He knocked here and there, listening for sounds that suggested something solid inside.

  “Matthew?”

  How had she done that? He hadn’t heard a thing. “Emily. I didn’t think you’d come out. Are you going to help me choose wood?”

  “She’ll never accept barn wood. No matter what you do, she’ll swear she can smell manure.”

  “What about the planks on that little dividing wall in the storehouse? Can we take that down?”

  “And evict the mice?”

  He thought she was joking, but given her concern for toads the other day he couldn’t be sure.

  She smiled. “If there are mice in the wall I’m not sure I’d want the wood in the house. Otherwise, you’re welcome to use it. It’s so nice of you to do this, Matthew.”

  Nice. That was him, all right.

  He nearly told her the whole story right then.

  MATTHEW LEFT soon after she found him in the barn, promising to come back in the morning to start building. Emily took one of her library books to the screened porch and stretched out on an old canvas chaise that nearly touched the ground when she was in it. Bees attracted to the geraniums outside bumped against the screen from time to time and Hamish occasionally peered in at her before returning to the hedge. The cat sat on her stomach digging in its claws while she rubbed its ears. She only got up once, around six, to make sandwiches, and then she returned to her book.

  Two-thirds of the way through, she let it drop onto the floor. Mosquitoes or thieves or anxious mother, she could not stay inside the walls of her house or the confines of her yard for another minute.

  She called into the kitchen that she was going to take a walk, then started down Robbs’ Road. The cat followed. They would really have to give it a name if it was going to stay. Maybe going upper-case would do.

  “Hey, Cat!”

  It looked at her, eyes alert, and leapt over a few patches of gravel to reach her side.

  “Is that what they called you, whoever you lived with before? Simple, but descriptive.”

  When she reached her grandmother’s house the cat bolted in the opposite direction, t
aking precautions with the dogs. Emily was surprised to see Eleanor sitting on the porch. She waved and hurried to join her.

  “I thought you’d gone to the lake this time, Grandma.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t. Look how long they’ve stayed. I saw Matthew go by. Did he spend the afternoon with you?”

  “He’s going to build more shelves for Mom.”

  “Goodness. There goes my hope that when she finally ran out of space she’d take up a different hobby. Visiting her old mother, for example.” Eleanor smiled.

  “Or collecting money. Imagine, neat little bundles of money all over the house!”

  “Would you prefer she collected twenties or hundreds?”

  “Good question. Both. Twenties for chocolate bars and hundreds for dresses.”

  They smiled fondly at each other.

  “Something on your mind, my dear?”

  There was, but Emily didn’t want to worry her. “The berries are turning into jam on the branches. Summer’s getting away on me.”

  “The day worrying about berries gives you circles under your eyes, I don’t know what I’ll do. Take you to the Pine Point hotel for a stiff drink, maybe.”

  Emily laughed. “Grandma.”

  “Did the thief frighten you? Are you worried about Julia?”

  She was worried about Matthew. Matthew not answering simple questions, like what work he did or exactly how he was related to Daniel. Avoiding the details whenever she asked where Daniel was, or if she could call him somewhere. Leaning close to Jason Willis before turning him over to the police, saying something she couldn’t hear. His manner had been so confiding. Or threatening. Either way, not right.

  “I’m wondering if someone I know is being honest with me. There are inconsistencies and I’m not sure what to make of them.”

  “That’s an uncomfortable thing. I suppose we all keep something hidden. When we’d been married for fifty years your grandfather could still surprise me.”

  Emily nodded slowly. She had only started getting to know Matthew, so surprises and questions, even doubts, were to be expected.