Winter Shadows

by Margaret Buffie

  Christmas was less than a week away, but there were no decorations up yet, except a glittery gold wreath with a sagging red bow that Jean had hung on the front door. Dad and I had five huge boxes of Christmas stuff somewhere. Would he even think to put out his Santa collection, or the set of snow houses for the mantel that Mom had collected over the years? Not likely.

  I looked at my bedside clock. Eleven-fifteen. Martin was picking me up at one. I was surprised he hadn’t called to cancel. I had a shower and tied my mass of red hair back with an elastic, hoping to control it a bit. Even so, as it dried, I could feel the front bit springing free and dangling in wisps around my face. I hoped Dad had ordered the flatiron I wanted for Christmas, so I could straighten it when I went out. It would be nice, just once, not to look like I’d put my finger in a light socket. Dad always said I looked magnificently Celtic; I always said I looked like a patient from a Victorian madhouse.

  Mom’s hair had been a pale gold, cut in short wispy spikes; her neck long and slender, like a child’s. Sometimes she’d acted more like a kid than I did. She could be embarrassing at times, but that was Mom and I loved her for it.

  Most of the time.

  “You goin’ out?” Daisy asked, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

  “As it happens,” I snapped, irritated by my own thoughts. At least Mom laughed a lot. Unlike Jean, who never laughed.

  Daisy pouted. “Oh. I thought maybe we could play cards or something.”

  Not on her life. “Did your mom send you back here last night?”

  “No. I heard them arguing again, so I waited ‘til they were asleep and snuck back.” She yawned.

  “They’ve been arguing? Really? Like shouting?”

  “Just kind of back-and-forth growling. They do it a lot. They think I’m asleep.”

  “What were they arguing about last night?”

  “What do you think? You!” The new open-faced Daisy vanished and the narrow-eyed one returned. “Mom said last night that you are working on her last good nerve and that your dad has to read you the riot act, whatever that is. Jonathan said she shouldn’t let you push her buttons. You know, Cass, you should change!”

  “He said I should change?”

  “No. I said that. Why can’t you be nice to Mom? Why are you so mean to us?” Her mouth was wobbling.

  I sighed. This is what I get for being nice to the kid the night she was sick?

  “Daisy. Think about it. Your mom hasn’t let me be part of anything since the words JUST MARRIED were painted on the back window of her car. You’ve been the kid from hell since the get-go. You lie about me, like the school bus thing, and make me look bad. Why should I be nice to you? Or her?”

  She flopped back onto her pillow and hid her face with her hands. “Go away. I was going to tell you a secret and now I’m not.” Her nails were bitten so badly, her fingertips looked like the stubs of half-worn pencil erasers. She was a mess.

  A twinge of guilt made me say, “I don’t care about any secret, okay? But you and I don’t have to hate each other. We could come to an arrangement. Like mild disdain.”

  “I don’t know what ‘disdain’ means.”

  She looked so pathetically interested, I couldn’t tell her the truth. “It means … er … polite. You know, trying to get along – that’s what I think, anyway.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “I’m tired of being mad,” she said. “It makes me feel crazy all the time. I had a couple of best friends at school, but they don’t want to know me anymore. Tracy had to ask me to her party ’cause I’m always invited. But no one wanted me there.”

  I checked my watch. “Look, I gotta go. We can talk more about this later, okay? Someone’s picking me up in a few minutes.” I gathered my folder and books together.

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Martin Pelly, if you must know, and because you and I seem to be okay at the moment, it might be nice not to get all snide about it.”

  I could see she was torn. This wasn’t going to be easy for either of us.

  She said, in a low voice, “So, what’s going on with you? Like when I saw you looking at an invisible book … and then downstairs the other night, before I threw up, you were just standing there. I thought I heard music, but it wasn’t our piano. Was it a tape? And why do you look weird sometimes – like you’re seeing something I can’t? You look like our old dog did when he just stared in the air and moved his head back and forth.”

  “He was probably checking out fleas flying around his head,” I said, laughing it off. “I think I was having fevers at night and half-awake dreams. Not anymore, though.”

  “So you’re okay now?”

  “As your mom would say, I’m right as rain.”

  “What does that actually mean? How can rain be right?”

  “I have no idea. So maybe we’ll play a game tonight,” I said. “I know one you’d like, I bet. Called Yahtzee. It’s in the cupboard, if you want to get it out and read the rules. My mom and I used to play it all the time. It’s fun.”

  “Tomorrow, okay? It’s the Christmas party tonight, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. That. Not sure if I can make it.”

  “You’d better!” she said. “There’s a surprise. A really stupid one.”

  “Really? Like I care?” But I couldn’t help wondering what it was.

  “I don’t have any Christmas presents for my mom or Jonathan yet,” she said. “Do you?”

  That shook me. I should have phoned Aunt Blair about shopping. “No. I don’t, actually.”

  She brightened. “We could go to Selkirk and buy something. Together!”

  “Yeah, okay. Tomorrow. Maybe Martin will drive us to Aunt Blair’s if I beg.”

  She hesitated. “Your aunt – the one Mom doesn’t like?”

  “Just because your mom doesn’t like her doesn’t mean you don’t have to.”

  “Okay. I’ll make a list today.”

  “Sounds good!” I said and headed out the door.

  The kid and I had actually talked like two human beings. How long would that last? Probably as long as it took Jean to set us against each other again.

  I wondered if Martin would let me hang around at his place long enough to miss most of the party. Dad would be beyond upset if I didn’t show at all – and he had sort of stuck up for me in their fight last night. Maybe the party wouldn’t happen if I just didn’t think about it. I touched the pearl star inside my sweater pocket. I could wish on a star.

  Jean was standing at the stove, staring at a teakettle sending out small puffs of steam. She looked exhausted. I put on my down jacket and grabbed a muffin out of the freezer and nuked it.

  She poured water into the Santa-head pot. “Where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  “Don’t be gone all afternoon, okay? I could do with some help with the party.”

  “Your party, not mine,” I said. “Wine and cheese parties were never allowed in our house. Mom said she’d rather go camping in the Interlake for a week in the rain with the sky full of mosquitoes than go to one wine and cheese party.”

  “It isn’t a wine and cheese party. It’s a Christmas gathering,” Jean snapped.

  “Are you serving wine?”

  “Of course.”

  “And cheese?”

  She stared at me.

  I smiled.

  “Well, as it turns out, your mom isn’t here to argue the point, is she?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, Cassandra … I’m sorry.…”

  I threw the muffin on the counter and shouted, “But that means you’re here, doesn’t it? And you will never take her place – not with me and not with Dad. Not ever.”

  I ran out the front door just as Martin’s truck rolled up. It was warm inside and smelled of vinegar and fries, but it didn’t comfort me. I felt like my hair was on fire.

  He looked at me. “Jeez, you okay?”

  “As I’ll ever be,” I said.

  He put the truck silently in gear, and we took off in
a spin of wheels through newly fallen snow.

  21

  BEATRICE

  Kilgour’s broad shed held three fat cows, four waddling geese, and one white gander that strutted and pecked around the feet of the docile cows. A tabby cat sat licking her paws near a dish of yellow cream. In a far corner lay two pigs on a clean bed of straw. In another, right against the house, was a tall wide cage of narrow strips of wood that held open nesting boxes and plump black-and-gray hens.

  “Goodness,” I said, “what a menagerie. And how portly they all are.”

  “If you want them to feed you, you keep them warm and feed them well in return.”

  “Nôhkom says your hens are still laying. That’s amazing to me.”

  He nodded. “Not as well as in summer, but enough. I’ve convinced a few of the farmers to try putting their hens near their houses. I got the idea from a Russian family I met in my travels in Ontario. They have a huge barn attached right to their house. It made perfect sense to me. We’ve started a farmers’ meeting here once a month to talk over such ideas.”

  “Fresh eggs,” I said. “Why doesn’t your mother use fresh?”

  He shrugged. “I give them to her, of course. She insists on salt storing them so they last longer. She is very frugal, as you can tell from her larder. As your father has a stone house and so few animals in the barn to keep it warm enough, he can’t really have laying hens in winter.”

  He opened the slatted door and took down a small hanging birch basket, tossed in a handful of clean straw, then went from hen to hen, gently moving them aside as they murmured and clucked.

  He held up the basket. “Nine. Will that do? I can collect more tomorrow. I promised Mistress Cochrane a few for her sick boy.”

  “But I can’t take them out of the mouths of sick children!”

  “There will be enough. How many cakes are you making?” he asked.

  “One large and two smaller. I know! I will cut up the large cake, and you can pass on portions to the more needy families from you and Minty –”

  “I’ll say they are from you. Only right and proper.”

  I pulled off a mitten. The pinkish brown eggs, stuck with wisps of soft gray feathers, were warm to my fingertips. A sudden surge of happiness made my hand tremble. For just one moment, I wondered, What happened to the happy girl I once was? How did I lose her? I took the basket, thanked him, and made straight for my little carriole.

  “If you wait, Miss Alexander,” he called, “I’ll follow. I just saddled my horse when I saw you stealing into my house.”

  I swung around, but he was walking toward the big barn across the yard, chuckling. I can’t help smiling as I write this. No one has teased me since I was a child. How many other times in the past few weeks has he done this and I misunderstood?

  He led a chestnut mare from the barn and swung up into the saddle. I climbed into the carriole, tucking the eggs beside me. Tupper trotted happily after the other horse. The sun was warm on my shoulders. For the first time in weeks, I heard sparrows chipping in nearby bushes.

  Halfway to Old Maples, Duncan Kilgour reined his horse and pointed at a track that led to the river. “Would you like to see an idea of your father’s? One he could not make himself, but one I’ve just finished?”

  I nodded. The track moved side to side like a ribbon, and we wound our way down to the river. Ahead lay a solid stretch of undulating snow, right up to the rock-hard yellow suds from the falls a quarter of a mile away. I could hear the faint rush of water in the distance. A hundred feet out from shore, I knew there was a small grass island, and between this and us sat a little hut.

  “Come! Take a look.”

  I wanted to tell Papa about it, so I followed. Inside the tiny shack were two rough benches, a buffalo robe thrown over each. Fishing lines hung on the walls. In the middle of the thick ice floor was a rough-cut hole, partially frozen over. A hatchet lay beside it.

  “Minty and I catch fish every time we’re here,” he said, standing close to me. “Your father was right about this spot being a sweet one. I’ll give some whitefish and pickerel to you soon.” He smiled warmly.

  I stepped back from him. “I’m sure my father would enjoy that,” I said.

  He nodded. “I didn’t send any to your house before you came home. Mother wouldn’t have them. She hates fish – even though she comes from a fishing village, or perhaps because of it.” He smiled again. “Now you can cook it for your papa. I’ve smuggled smoked gold-eye to him and kôhkom a few times. Minty does it the Indian way. And even he is fed to the back teeth with fish. We give a lot away and the remainder to the dogs.”

  “Don’t forget to bring the boy for Christmas dinner, Mr. Kilgour. There will be lots of meat then.”

  He looked at me. “He’d rather eat at home. He is shy.”

  “The world is changing. Minty must be more social. I will expect both of you.”

  He sketched an exaggerated bow. “Yes, okiskinwahamâkêw.”

  Remembering his harsh words to me last night, I snapped, “You call me teacher as if it is an insult. I must get going. My ovens will be eating wood for no good purpose.”

  “My mother will also be smoldering.” He laughed, perhaps more at me than at his little joke. “I’ll cut more wood for you later. I’m looking forward to cake and shortbread.”

  “If I ever get to it,” I said. “I’ve got choir practice tonight. I didn’t expect to stop and waste time like this.” I turned and walked out of the hut toward the hill.

  “Beatrice!” I glared back at him. “Miss Alexander,” he added, dropping his hands at his sides as if in defeat. “I am sorry I upset you last night. I can be too aggressive in my views, I know that. To hurt you was not my intention, but hurt you I did. I am a rat, but a humbled, pathetic, whimpering rat.” He put one hand on his heart, trying to look pitiable.

  Despite his gross exaggerations, or perhaps because of them, though I knew he was sincere, I said, “Must you always play the buffoon? I have no time for this!”

  I gathered my skirts together and plowed my way back up to where Tupper and my carriole waited. I was checking the eggs were still intact when something hit me from behind, spraying the carriole with snow. I whirled around.

  Duncan Kilgour was laughing so hard, he was holding his sides. Then he pulled off his fur hat and flapped it at me. “Your face…” he sputtered, then let out a loud guffaw.

  I was taught by one of the supreme snowball makers – my papa – so mine was in hand and quickly packed before Kilgour even noticed. It hit him square between the eyes. He fell like a toppling tree, straight onto his back, where he lay still.

  “That should teach you!” I cried.

  He didn’t move.

  I called again.

  He lay as still as a dead fish.

  “Mr. Kilgour?”

  No movement.

  “Duncan Kilgour, don’t play the fool.” One of his legs twitched, then went still.

  Had I knocked him out with one round? The top of the snow was warmed from the sun, so it was easy to pack into a hard ball. To be fair, Duncan had packed his lightly, so it easily broke against me.

  There was a red welt on his forehead. He didn’t seem to be breathing. With growing fear, I leaned closer. “Mr. Kilgour? Duncan?” His laughing eyes popped open and his arms and legs moved in a swishing motion, creating a snow angel. His beard and wild hair were floured with white. I kicked him in the side with my useless moccasins. His hand snaked out, grabbed my foot, and I landed sideways in the snow. He was laughing with such abandon that I finally gave in and joined him in the whole ridiculousness of it all.

  “Look up at the sky, Beatrice!” he cried. “It’s the color of sapphires!”

  I lay back in the snow. Not a cloud to be seen. The sky was a jewel of perfect clarity. I made a snow angel to commemorate its beauty.

  A shadow fell over me. Duncan held one hand out to help me up. At that same moment, my spirit girl appeared beside him, wearing a red hat, mit
tens, and a dark green coat of shiny material. She was smiling as if she knew something I didn’t.

  Before Duncan moved in front of her, I waved. And she waved right back.

  22

  CASS

  Thick lazy snowflakes continued to fall, white butterflies whisking past the truck, making everything a muted white, green, and brown blur. Martin’s wipers thunked back and forth.

  “So what happened?” He was looking straight ahead.

  “Not a good morning in my house, that’s all.”

  “That happens.”

  I took a deep breath. “Outside looks like one of those watercolor Christmas cards my mom liked to send – all misty and soft.”

  I must have sounded shaky, because he said, “Not looking forward to this Christmas, huh?”

  That was so totally connected to how I felt, I was stunned into silence. He parked in front of Pelly’s and put his arm along the back of the seat. “Big fight with Jean?”

  “Something like that. I’m okay.”

  He nodded, and we walked toward the restaurant.

  “Aren’t we going over to your place?” I looked toward the blue house with its screened veranda tucked behind a row of pines, about a hundred feet away.

  “I always check in at lunch when my parents are away.”

  The restaurant was half full. Four young women were serving behind the wide counter. The place was covered with blinking, red-nosed, Santa-laughing, elf-grinning, silver-tasseled, Happy-Christmasy kitsch.

  A couple of boys from our homeroom were standing at the counter, salting their fries – preppy types from the new development, dressed in expensive ski jackets and designer jeans.

  “Hey, Martin,” called the taller one, “you hanging out with that crazy girl from school? I was on that bus. Gus made us push it out. I ruined a new pair of shoes. Be careful, that stunned chick might decide you’re going to run over Robin Hood and his trusty steed with that wiener truck of yours! You could end up bouncing down the bank straight into the river!”