by William Bell
So she wasn’t happy when, one day early in my final year of high school, I let her in on my ambition. I waited until she was in the middle of a feature article she was writing for a national magazine. Something about election corruption in provincial politics. I figured if she was a little distracted I might be able to sneak the notion past her.
“Um, Mom, this might not be the best time to talk about it, but I want to try out an idea on you.”
“Oh,” she said, typing away, “what?”
“First you have to promise me you won’t get mad.”
She stopped tapping and turned to me. “Garnet, don’t be so dramatic. Let’s hear it.” When I said nothing, she relented. “All right. I won’t get angry.”
“I’ve decided I don’t want to go on after high school.”
She clicked on the Save button and stared at the screen.
“Don’t you want to hear my reasons?”
“No, I don’t, Garnet. You want to throw away your future, become a dropout.”
“Mom, I hate school so much. As it is, every morning I have to drag myself up the hill, sit through incredibly boring classes that have nothing to do with anything. It’s not like I don’t know what I want to do with my life. I do. And I don’t need a degree for it. I want to get on with things.”
“Your father and I always hoped you’d go to university.”
“No, you did.”
“Whatever. And now you’ll be a quitter.”
“I’m not quitting. You’re twisting things. I told you a million times, I know what I want to do in life. I’m not quitting. I want to begin.”
“Well, it’s not a good idea and I’m not going to support it.”
“Mom, how come it’s all right for Dad and me to support your career, but when it’s my turn, it’s a different story?”
My plan was to finish high school and work at the store full time while I found a cabinetmaker to apprentice myself to, then one day open my own shop where I could design and build furniture. Dad loved the idea; Mom didn’t. She wanted me to go to university first, to “keep my options open.”
They couldn’t even agree on my future. But there was one thing about the two of them. They loved each other so deeply you’d have sworn they were wired to the center of the universe.
chapter
The six-o’clock news was just coming on when I left Toronto and joined the rush-hour traffic heading north on Highway 400. I had spent the entire day, almost, delivering a pine dresser — refinished by You Know Who — to a customer who lived, in Dad’s vague directions, “somewhere off the Danforth.” It had taken me an hour just to find the house.
It was a cold day in late March, blustery and damp. The sky was the color of wet cement, and flakes of snow, riding sluggishly on a damp wind, flecked the windshield and melted immediately. When the news was over, the weather woman sent out dire warnings about a freak storm, as if a snowfall came only once each century.
As I made my way north, snow began to coat the shoulders of the road, then gradually crept toward the center in spite of the volume of traffic. As the snow built up, the traffic slowed, and four lanes caved in to three, then two, then one long slow-moving line.
By the time I came to the strip malls and factories a few miles south of Barrie it was dark and I was in the middle of a full blizzard, peering through a white fog of snow at the tail lights of the cars in front of me. The wind howled across the highway, pushing curtains of thick flakes, picking up snow from the fields and banks on the west side of the road and stirring it into the storm, producing a white-out. Driving in the white-out was like creeping along the bottom of a sea of milky water that was constantly swirling and buffeting the van, reducing visibility to zero.
I was sneaking along at about twenty klicks an hour, leaning forward, my hands clenched on the steering wheel. Suddenly red lights appeared ahead of me, flashing on and off in a broad band. I flipped on my emergency flashers and gingerly applied the brakes, my shoulders hunched in anticipation of another car smashing into the back of me. I came to a halt without sliding.
I strained to see ahead. There appeared to be a clear track along the divider. I moved forward slowly, threading a needle. In a Ford Bronco that was facing backwards, a man was talking into a cell phone. A bunch of kids in a van sat with faces glued to the glass. Six or seven cars, pointing in every direction, lay slammed together like toys left behind in the middle of a living room. I passed an ambulance. One of the paramedics was walking from car to car; the other was talking on the radio. A tractor-trailer had jackknifed and swept half a dozen cars into the ditch.
Soon I cleared the wreckage. The highway ahead seemed almost empty after the mess I had come through.
I continued, took Highway 11, climbed the rise to “gasoline alley,” where the gas station lamps were amber blobs in the fog of snow, then fishtailed my way up the long hill north of the alley. Completely unnerved by then, I decided to get off the highway at the Third Concession, if I could find it.
I knew that the concession road hooked up with the Old Barrie Road, which I could follow into Orillia. There were farms all along the route, so I wouldn’t be trapped or isolated if the roads proved to be impassable.
I pushed on. The radio said that almost a meter of snow had fallen in the last three hours. The heater fan roared, the wipers flapped frantically, barely able to keep ahead of the snow, my hands ached from gripping the wheel, my neck and shoulders were stiff from tension.
The van began to slither around like an eel as it pushed through the deepening snow, steadily losing traction. Without warning, it shied sideways when the rear wheels broke free. I eased off the gas, almost out of control, as the van tried to swap ends. It lurched to the right, and the steering wheel whipped from my hands. The van dipped forward, then a huge black shape loomed ahead, seeming to rise up out of the whirling blanket of white. I hit the brakes too late and heard a dull metallic crunch. My body pitched forward and I felt my breath whoosh out as the seat belt yanked against my chest.
The engine stalled. I forced myself to take a deep breath. The left headlight had smashed in the collision with what looked like a stone wall that rose to the height of the windshield. The right headlight tore a tunnel through the thicket of snow, revealing nothing.
When I had my breathing under control I started the van and tried to back out onto the road. The rear wheels spun uselessly. I tried rocking the van back and forward, switching rapidly from Reverse to Drive. I got nowhere. Cursing, I shut off the engine. Over the tick of the cooling motor the howling wind told me I had a serious challenge on my hands, stranded until daylight or until the snow stopped and a plow came by. In my mind I ran a check on the items in what Dad called the disaster kit we keep behind the seat: an anorak, boots, hat, mitts, a cold-weather sleeping bag, matches, a flashlight. I opened the glove compartment and took out the cell phone. With a cheerful beep and a blinking black triangle in the display window, it told me the battery was dead.
I was in deep trouble. Sitting in the van for hours with the engine running was not an option, unless I wanted to gas myself to death. Neither was flirting with hypothermia. I turned off the headlights and the night closed in around me.
I reached behind the seat, unzipped the canvas bag and lifted out the flashlight, a long tubular model like the ones cops use. Shining it through the windshield was impossible. The glass threw the light back, making my eyes smart in the glare. I rolled down the door window, stuck my arm into the freezing wind, playing the flashlight beam back and forth. Snow swirled into the cab. The light revealed a structure made of large stones and mortar.
The icy wind quickly coated the inside of the windshield with condensation, which immediately froze. I stuck my head out the window, swept back and forth with the light again. Let there be a house or something nearby, I whispered. The gusts rose and fell, buffeting the van, stinging my face with snow, numbing my hands.
Then I saw something. Something that flashed whiter than the
snow, a broken outline of an octagon. A stop sign.
I pulled my arm, now caked with snow, inside and rolled up the window. By now I could see my breath. I pulled the disaster kit from behind the seat, telling myself I’d be all right, turning my options over in my mind as I pulled on a wool toque, a goose-down vest and waterproof anorak, and heavy felt-lined boots. I stuffed the wool-lined leather mitts into the pockets of the anorak.
A stop sign indicated a crossroads. Four corners often meant buildings, but there were no lights, not even a glimmer in the wall of flying snow. Probably the hydro was out — a good possibility, given the power of the wind. But even if the electricity was off, there would be candlelight, lanterns, something. Maybe, I thought as my spirits fell again, it was only a crossroads. Should I risk getting lost stumbling around in the gale, searching for a shed or a barn, or should I stay in the van and try to keep myself from dying from the cold?
Always stay with the boat was a rule drummed into my head every summer when I went to camp on the other side of Lake Couchiching. If your canoe overturns, if your sailboat capsizes, never try to swim for shore. Stay with the boat. Always. No exceptions. You’ll be tempted to swim for it. Don’t.
So I’d stay with the van. But I could try to probe the snowfall with the flashlight, get a better look. I turned on the parking lights to give me a point of orientation once I was outside, pulled up my hood, tied the strings under my chin and put on the heavy mitts. I slid over to the passenger side, pushed open the door and got out, sinking to my knees. With a gnawing sense of futility, I shone the flashlight into the storm. I saw nothing but a shifting white wall, then the luminescent outline of the stop sign winked in and out of view with the pulsing of the wind. I scoured to the right of the sign. Gradually, though the surging and waning of the blizzard, something seemed to form itself. It was a small building.
Leaning into the wind, I waded back to the lee side of the van. From under the seat I took a length of rope I had used to tie down the dresser. I secured one end to the door handle, grabbed the survival kit, which now contained only the sleeping bag, and, playing out the rope as I went, stumbling through drifts toward the building.
I found the door easily enough, kicked snow out of the way, pulled it open to reveal an inner door. It was locked.
I tied the rope to the skeleton of a bush and stashed the bag between the doors to keep it dry. Then, guided by the rope, I plowed back to the van. I turned off the parking lights. The wind had picked up, and by the time I had returned to the door with a tire iron my teeth were chattering. If I was lucky, the cabin would have a fireplace or stove.
A few blows with the tire iron tore the rusted hasp out of the door frame and the lock dropped to my feet. I stepped inside and pulled the doors shut. I was safe.
chapter
The cabin — or whatever it was — had one room, about ten feet by twelve, with a dozen or so benches in the middle, most of them arranged in two banks with an aisle up the middle, a few overturned. Some kind of meeting house, I figured. The still, frigid air, the inky black at the edge of the pool of light cast by the flashlight, the shadows that stretched away from me across the floor and up the walls combined to create an eerie atmosphere.
I stood by the door and played the light around the room. The side walls had two large windows each, made up of square panes. At the far end of the room was a table, and in the corner lay a broken lectern. The wall showed the faint outline of a large cross. Now I knew what kind of meeting place it was.
I said a silent Hooray when I caught sight of a small stove and a stack of wood in the corner. My footsteps thumped hollowly on the wooden floor, my breath formed frost clouds before me. As I neared one of the windows I took a look outside.
A hooded figure stood out there, watching me.
The flashlight crashed to the floor and rolled away, the light beam wobbling crazily until it came to rest, sending a streak of light up the wall where the cross had hung. I stood frozen to the spot, heart hammering.
The window was dark again and I saw nothing. I side-stepped slowly over to the flashlight. I stayed clear of the beam so whoever was out there couldn’t see me. When my brain began to function again I realized that whoever it was would need to come in.
But who was he? What was he doing, on foot, out in the storm? I bent slowly and picked up the flashlight. “Who’s there?” I called out. Then, louder, “Is there someone out there?”
No answer, only the sighing wind. I crept slowly to the window and, summoning my courage, raised the light to the glass. He was still there, motionless. Terrified again, I forced myself to examine him. He wore an anorak with the hood laced under his chin.
“You idiot,” I said out loud.
The flashlight had turned the window into a mirror. I was looking at my own reflection.
Muttering angrily at myself, feeling foolish but unable to shake the sense of uneasiness, I dragged two benches to the corner and spread out the sleeping bag, shaking it to give it loft. Then I opened the stove door and shone the light inside. It seemed functional. Beside it was a wooden box containing kindling and newspaper, and beside that a small stack of split wood. If I was economical, it would last the night. I set paper and kindling in the stove and heard the roar of flame and smoke sucked up the chimney and away by the wind.
I kicked off my boots, shrugged out of the anorak and climbed into the sleeping bag. Soon the warmth began to make me sleepy. The next day the snowplows would be out. I’d walk the road until I came to a house, call for a tow truck to pull the van out of the ditch, drive home, get some hot coffee into me, have a long, hot shower.
The wind howled along the walls of the old church, moaned at the eaves, whined at the window ledges, fistfuls of snow rattling the glass. As it warmed, the building creaked and cracked.
My thoughts turned to Raphaella. I pictured her standing in class during the debate, her pale skin and dark eyes, the plum-colored mark on her face and neck. I saw her walking down the hall, her long black hair swaying to and fro across her back. Her willowy body. She carried herself with a confidence and grace I hardly ever saw in other girls. She was intelligent and articulate and wasn’t afraid to show it.
No wonder I was in love with her. I ached to see her again, close-up this time. But how could I manage it?
I got up and put another small log on the fire. I scrunched down into the sleeping bag and, with her face in my imagination, fell asleep.
2
Once, a few years before, I had a vicious case of bronchitis that brought with it a high fever and bizarre, terrifying nightmares that left me breathless and sweaty. In the church, with the blizzard raging outside and hard benches under me, I slept fitfully, slipping in and out of troubling dreams. Though I couldn’t recall it, each dream left a residue of dread that seemed to build as the night wore slowly on, until finally I was awakened by the rasping of my own rapid breathing.
Around me the rushing wind shrieked and moaned. The comforting crackle of the fire had died away. I swallowed on a dry throat, fumbled for the flashlight and checked my watch. It was just after two o’clock.
Gradually, like a theme emerging in a piece of music, a sound borne by the wind began to separate itself from the background howl. I strained to identify it, scarcely breathing, rigid with concentration. An insistent grumble, like a crowd makes in a movie or a play.
The grumbling intensified without being louder, became more human, the voices of men, at least half a dozen, double that at most. Their distant murmuring carried tones of anger, determination, fear. The sound swelled, stronger, more insistent. Then, like bubbles rising to the surface, one at a time, and bursting, I heard eighty wish … now … go back!… no!, each distinct word floating on a rumbling tide of rage and terror and, finally, hatred.
Eighty wish … go back!… no! Then, Stone … stone.
It was as if the men were passing outside the church on their way somewhere.
The voices receded into the roar of the storm. I
was half free of the sleeping bag, propped on one elbow, straining after the terrible sounds. I lay down again, trembling. I began to reason with myself, word by unspoken word regaining confidence. I was imagining things. A gusty wind like that could make strange effects, play with my mind. There were no men. How could there be, in a storm like this in the middle of the night? My nightmares, the stress of the day, loneliness and isolation had gotten to me. Hadn’t I thought I saw a man in the window a few hours before?
I took in a long breath and let it out slowly. Be reasonable, I repeated to myself. I wanted to go back to sleep, but in a way I was afraid to. There’s nothing to fear, I told myself. Don’t be a fool.
3
Three times that night the voices returned. By the time a weak grey light diluted the darkness at the windows the wind had ceased its assault on the cabin, and I was a wreck.
When the light had risen enough to illuminate the inside of the church, I got up, made sure the fire in the stove was out, packed up my stuff and pushed open the door. The driven snow had been sculpted into ridges like frozen waves alongside and behind the building. In the flat light of early morning I saw that the log structure stood at the intersection of the Third Concession and the Old Barrie Road. Nearby was a stone monument, and on its far side rested the van, its left front smashed in.
Unable to stop myself, I searched the drifts around the church for footprints. I found nothing. Coiling my guide rope, I plowed my way to the van and stowed my gear behind the seat.
The engine started immediately and, with the heater pumping warm air into the cab, I tried once more to back out onto the road. No luck.
An hour or so later a county snowplow came by, snorting diesel smoke into the cold, still air, the blue light revolving on the top. The driver was happy to pull me out of the ditch. I followed the plow into town, glad to see the red streak of the rising sun in the trees beside the road.