The man slowed down, looking back over his shoulder. He wore an old beat up fishing hat with lures and flies decorating it. At least three or four day's growth of beard covered his face and his complexion was like a weathered but healthy lobster boat skipper's
“I'm not a cop, or anything like that,” Frank said. “I'm from Massachusetts. I'm here to get some information on Lawrence Lowell.” Lynn had arrived after making her way up to the tracks.
The man stopped. “Who are you? He kept a safe distance. “Why do you want to know about Lawrence Lowell?”
“It's a long story. Can we go somewhere? Maybe a diner in town or maybe—”
The old man interrupted. “Right! In this town. Sit down in public and talk about Lawrence Lowell in a less than positive manner. I imagine that it's for something other than love of the man that you're seeking information. I mean that's the usual reason someone comes here and asks about him. He made a lot of friends...and a lot of enemies. Coincidentally none of the enemies live in this town...anymore.” Then as an afterthought,”I myself am neutral.”
“The graffiti?” Frank inquired about the old man's statement about neutrality.
He thought, then said, “Well, maybe not entirely neutral”. An enigmatic smile. “We can talk. A little ways from here. My place, okay? “It's just a short walk. Wait, we'd better not leave your car there. We can drive. It's just off one of these back roads. A dirt road. Do you mind?”
“No, I'm looking forward to asking some questions about Lawrence Lowell.”
They drove onto a dirt road a hundred yards from the bridge.
“Ah, how far is your place?” said Frank as they bounced along, swerving from side to side avoiding potholes and ruts. Tall pines spread their branches over the road, blocking out even the starlight. It was difficult to tell which pot holes were the deepest to avoid, the headlights creating shadows that almost obscured them. The rims of the potholes were lit but the inside was dark. Frank made his best guess and didn't bottom out too many times. He imagined that he wouldn't escape from this without at least a bashed-in muffler.
Lynn turned and looked over the seat back as she listened to the conversation.
The old man smiled and said. “Go slow. It's great for privacy.” Frank couldn't get anything out of him about Lawrence Lowell while they drove and he was too busy keeping his car in one piece to press the questioning.
They came to what looked like an elaborate camp site. There were comfortable-looking pre-fab log cabin structures arranged side by side to provide more room. “Mi casa es su casa.” said the old man.
“You live here?” said Lynn “Camping?”
The old man laughed. “Permanent camping.”
“Does your family live here too?” Lynn surveyed the scene. There was a well made of stones, and on top of a high tower that stuck up above the trees was a wind powered electricity generator.
“That's not what you wanted to ask me about as I recall. But for someone as pretty as you, I'll answer” Lynn looked away momentarily, then managed an embarrassed smile.”My wife Denise died 20 years ago...cancer. She wouldn't let us...” He stopped as if to prevent himself from saying anything that he knew he shouldn't.”It's curable now. 20 years. If she had gotten it ten years later, she'd still be with me.” He kicked a nearby stone across the campsite.
Frank wondered why the old man didn't invite them in to see the dwelling. He wrote it off to the old man's not knowing them and feeling safer outside. The old man continued. “Had a brother too. Died. It mus be about forty years I'd say. He used to come out here all the time. Camping. Fishing. We both loved this place. But God did his wife hate me...still hates me. Couldn't stand him being out here slumming with me.'Playing Walden Pond' she called it. Doing my Henry David Thoreau thing. She would have preferred having him with her at the..” He stopped himself again.
Lynn shot a perplexed look at Frank then back at the old man. “Didn't get along with the in-laws? Huh?” she said.
“Don't,”he corrected. “She's still kicking. I drive her crazy every time I have to be around her. I show up to business meetings dressed like this to irritate her. It ruins her day. Seeing me there looking scruffy. Hell, if it wasn't for her I would show up in a business suit.”
“So you're not actually a...” Lynn hesitated.
“The derelict that I appear? No I'm comfortable. And I sometimes even shave.”
“You live here all year?” Lynn let her mind wander back to the long winter that had begrudgingly let go of its hold on the Northeast, after dumping 14 inches of late snow and wiping out everyone's spring planting.
“I come and go. Mostly go when it's real cold. This is my home though. I do spend a lot of time here in the winter too. It's beautiful then, in a different way. There's a pond about a hundred yards up that trail and over a ridge. At night there's absolute darkness. Not an artificial light in sight. The stars are amazing. No light pollution at all.
“Light pollution? That's kind of a scientific term?” said Lynn
“Are you accusing me of being a moron too, in addition to being a derelict?” The three of them laughed. “I read a lot about science...and medicine. A lot about medicine. I row out on the pond on nights when there's a meteor shower. I lie back and I can actually see the things, not like going out into your backyard in the city and having street lights all around and you can't see a damn thing.”
“T. V.,” Lynn said, “Radio?”
“Radio yes, T. V. no,”said the old man. A look of disgust accompanied the words T. V.
He explained. “One night I was watching T. V. and this commercial came on that I had seen at least one hundred times in the past week and it was so irritating that I couldn't take watching it again so I turned off the set., but the damn commercial kept playing in my head and I couldn't do anything about it. It continued in my head until it ended. That was when I gave up watching television. Commercial television anyway.”
Lynn was about to bring up Lawrence Lowell, but asked instead, “What about radio commercials?”
The old man laughed. “Smart lady. Public radio from Syracuse.” Then he confessed, “Well, sometimes television too. The educational channels that is. Sometimes they make it worth listening to a commercial or two. Not out here though. T. V. would ruin the effect of this place.”
“Can you tell us about Lawrence Lowell?” said Frank.
The old man insisted first that they tell their story. He listened and after a while he got up and put a few logs and kindling in a pile and lit it. The night had completely closed in. The pine tops poked up toward the little remaining light high in the atmosphere. The fire crackled and the old man sat down, crossed his legs, looked at Frank, then Lynn, as if to see if he could pick up some signals from their minds revealing their true purpose for inquiring about Lawrence Lowell.
“You don't even know Lawrence Lowell and he's affecting your lives to this extent. Truly amazing. He threw another stick on the fire and looked up. Even with the glow from the fire the stars were already bright. “Beautiful here, isn't it?” Then he said. “They froze him. You'd find that out talking to anyone around here.” He let them think about that for a moment then when neither of them replied, he added, “Froze him!. He's still there in the research building. Dead as a doornail. So far.”
“So far?” questioned Frank.
“That's the purpose of the place...the whole town if you come right down to it...everything that goes on here. To provide a safe resting place for him until the research facility thaws him out, revives him, cures his disease and finds a way to reverse the cell damage caused by the freezing.”
All three sat and thought about the implications of what they had learned.
A log crackled and popped and a spark flew across the area where they were seated, landing closest to Lynn. “Why didn't anybody pay any attention to this rich person being frozen? I mean we saw his biography in a book and it didn't even mention anything about his being frozen.”
“Think back,” said the
old man while stirring the fire with a stick. “Ever heard the name Walt Disney? Ridiculous question, right?
Lynn nodded and the old man continued. Nobody paid any attention to Lawrence Lowell being frozen for two reasons. First, he wanted it that way. It's not a commonly known fact. And second, around the time that Lawrence Lowell was frozen, there were still rumors that Walt Disney had been frozen a decade earlier. But Lawrence Lowell was not famous or well-known. He was influential but he didn't like publicity.” The old man readjusted himself on his log and then continued. “The only thing that came out of this place was rumors. Anyway, everybody was more concerned with Disney because he had a private funeral. That led to rumors. Everybody wanted to know if Walt Disney had been frozen. Still wonder about it. Nobody cared if Lawrence Lowell had been frozen and that would have pleased Mr. Lowell just fine.”
They sat and stared into the fire for a while. A loud pop from the wood brought Lynn out of her thoughts. Her gaze bounced around the area. “Wouldn't have a beer, would you,”
Frank was surprised at first, then amused by the request. The old man laughed and said,”Want to take a look at the pond?” Got a couple of six packs under water there. I've got a fridge inside but I just like cooling them there.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Just seems to taste better.”
He kicked dirt onto the fire and then they walked up the gradual slope until they came to the top and then stopped, giving them a chance to look out over the pond from above. A brilliant sliver of moon was just rising over the opposite slope., peeking through the trees. They descended to the water's edge.
“Full of lake trout,” bragged the old man as they made their way down a trail to the shore. “Great fishing. Better than great. The best.”
“No bugs?” said Lynn. “No mosquitoes?” No black flies?” She remembered the little version of the housefly which is the north country's answer to jaws. “I haven't felt a single one yet.”
The old man said, “Isn't that the best part of all this? There's a large population of purple martin living in the area. Mosquitoes are their favorite meal. There's nothing they'd rather eat than a mosquito.” He didn't mention whether they liked the black flies.
They picked a rock for each of them by the water's edge and sat down on them.
“Real nice.” said Lynn, looking around. “I can see why you live here. But how does this place remain undeveloped?”
“Zoning and it's posted...no trespassing,” he replied. Then when he saw that they were expecting more, he added,. “Lawrence Lowell. You want to know about Lawrence Lowell. Well, the whole town is paid off. To cooperate. They're happy to. No property taxes. No heating bills. Everybody's mortgage paid off. Just a few agreements they had to make and then they had it all. The rest of the northeast is struggling, people losing their homes because they can't pay their property taxes or heating bills but this town is prospering.”
“But we never heard of it,” said Lynn. “Why?” The why sounded like it was said by an investigative reporter interviewing a politician.
“Lawrence Lowell Enterprises runs the town...according to Lawrence Lowell's instructions. All his corporations are closely held. No stock is sold to the public. The CEO carries out Lawrence Lowell's instructions. Everything was agreed to at a special town meeting when Lawrence Lowell was building the facility and was finalized just before he died. The town jumped at the chance.”
The old man took a long drink of beer, then caught up on the lost breath and continued, “They worship the facility. They worship the name Lawrence Lowell. No medical bills, millions for the schools, non-profit supermarkets. Controlled growth for the offspring of those that live here. Free housing for them when they become adults. Guaranteed employment at one of Lawrence Lowell's companies. Good paying jobs that people can have a future with, not the trash jobs that this country has deteriorated into. Wouldn't you give up your freedom of choice for that?
“This town gets from Lawrence Lowell what everyone should be getting in this country but isn't. Can you imagine anything closer to heaven on Earth? They'd do anything for that research center. They love it.” He held up an index finger to make a point. “There's one catch. If anything happens to Lawrence Lowell, the town is on its own again. All the trust funds and aid programs that Lawrence Lowell established to pay all the town's expenses will end. You can see why the town is protective of the research facility. They even have a 'Lawrence Lowell Research Project Protection Committee' to make sure everything possible is done to keep Lawrence Lowell safe until he's revived. You got a taste of their protectiveness, I take it, when you met up with the Southford Police.”
Frank nodded, a momentary look of disgust on his face.
“The town's people here feel about the project the way everyone would like to feel about our government.
Lynn looked up at the moon. It was completing its appearing act above tree level. In the moon glow on the surface of the pond Frank and Lynn noticed the light playing on expanding ripples and the frequent plink or splash of fish jumping., the loudness depending on how far out in the pond the jumping occurred. The frequency of the jumping gave the impression that the pond was brimming with fish.
“There seems to be a lot of fish in this pond.” commented Lynn
“Best fishing anywhere. I feed them a specially prepared fish food. Mix it myself. They love it and thrive on it.”
“Did you ever think of patenting it?” Frank said. “They seem to be thriving even more than if it was a fish farm. You might have something there.”
He replied. “It wouldn't be practical. EPA rules and that sort of thing.”
“What have you got in it? Nuclear waste? Frank joked, after a loud splash not far from them. “That was a big one.”
“We'll get out the fishing gear sometime if you spend some time around here, and you can do battle with them,” said the old man.
Lynn, who didn't seem interested in the fishing possibilities changed the subject back to Lawrence Lowell. “So they work full time on research on how to bring this guy back to life? Do they keep the town posted on the progress?”
“No. the facility is off limits. By the way, you may as well refer to it the same way everyone else does—The Ice House.”
Lynn turned to Frank. “I'm having a lot of difficulty figuring out what's going on. Where do you fit in, Frank” Why the dreams? Does Lawrence Lowell need a soul and he's trying to steal yours so he can come back to life?”
“I think I may be able to give a suggestion about what's going on,” said the old man. “I've had forty years to think about the possible implications of freezing a man for 30,40...100 years and then bringing him back to life. Like for example, is he the same person when he's brought back? Where is his soul, if there is such a thing, for all that time?”
Frank was in thought, looking at the fire they had lit, into the depths of the glowing embers, at the snakelike undulations of the burning areas on the wood as they changed shape, moved along the wood to reappear on another part, flare, disappear again and reappear elsewhere.
The fire seemed to speak to him in its sign language of flames, dancing and gyrating, rising and falling, twisting, waving, changing color, presenting images more suggestive than a day full of cloud shapes to interpret. Frank watched, but like all the languages of the natural world it was unable to make itself understood to humans. As the fire made its effort, Frank wondered what it would say of this place if they could communicate. Frank's attention was yanked away by one loudly spoken word.
“Reincarnation?” suggested Lynn. She saw that Frank's thoughts were lost in the flames.
“There's one way to find out if the Ice House is doing something that might be the cause of your dreams,” said the old man. “Walk up to the front door of the Ice House and say hello.”
“You mean you can just walk in,” said Frank.
“No. Chain link fences ten feet high. Guards. But the security isn't that strict. Doesn't have to be. The town loves that place. Nobody cares
what goes on in there. The only project in there is Lawrence Lowell himself. Twenty-four hours a day. Round the clock research for the last forty years. Just walk up to the gate and tell your story.”
“You mean there are people who have been working on it for forty years?” Frank got up and put one foot on the log that he had been sitting on and leaned on that leg. “What happens when someone dies? Has anyone quit?”
“Nobody quits. Oh, I don't mean it's like organized crime or anything. The pay is just so high, and when Lawrence Lowell personally has access again to his checking account, there's a million dollar bonus in it for each staff member. That's a hell of a stimulus to loyalty. And the townspeople get their benefits locked in permanently if Lawrence Lowell is revived successfully.”
“I can see why they'd be so loyal,” said Frank. He took an empty beer can and stomped it flat with his foot. He picked it up and held it in his upturned palm and looked at the old man as if to say Where?
“We'll carry them out to my camp when we're finished here. Then he took his can and stomped on it, slightly off target resulting in an elongated shape. He threw it over toward Frank's can, the beginning of a pile.
Lynn finished a long swallow of beer, lowered the can a bit too hard to her knee and said, “Ow.” They looked to see what the exclamation was for. She laughed. “This is going down too easy tonight,” she said. “Reminds me of my days in college. We used to walk down the railroad tracks that led to two ponds. We'd cool the beer in the water and drink there before a dance or something back on campus.”Hey!. She exclaimed, realizing it had been an hour or more since they met him. “What's your name? I'm Lynn Beverly. He's Frank Tilton. Where are our manners. I apologize.”
“Scott” He hesitated a moment then said, “Smith.”
“Scott?” she seemed surprised.
“What,” said Scott. “You expected me to have an old codger type of name?' He gave her a wink.
She laughed, then said, “Like what? What's a stereotyped old codger name? Not that you're an old codger. Not living like this. You're living like a young...codger. What the hell does codger mean anyway?”
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