Glare Ice

by Mary Logue

  “Yes, of course you are, my dear. But your hair covers them nicely.”

  Claire didn’t honor that with a response.

  “What I was thinking was that there is a chance that Buck killed himself.”

  Claire sat down in her rolling chair and it rolled a little. She pulled herself back up to her desk and wrote down, Suicide? “You think so?”

  “Not really. I mean I don’t think he did, but when I went over how it happened, I realized he could have tied himself to the headrest, drove himself out onto the lake, knowing he wouldn’t have been able to get the ties off in time to save himself from drowning.”

  “Yuck.”

  “A possibility.”

  “Well, if Virginia Woolf could load her pockets up with stones and walk into the Thames, I suppose Buck could tie himself to his car. I’m going out to talk to his parents shortly, and I’ll try to find out more about his state of mind.”

  An hour later, Claire drove down the driveway of a large farm on the bluff. The view of the lake up the valley was spectacular. She pulled over for a moment and looked down at the ice-covered lake glistening in the subdued sunlight. It did look as if some weather was moving in.

  The farmhouse was set back from the bluff, so it didn’t have as much of a view, but probably got hit with less of the wind.

  Claire’s knock brought a woman in her late fifties to the door. She guessed it was Mrs. Owens. She was tall and heavy with a pile of white hair on her head. Her eyes were very blue in her pale face.

  Without saying anything to Claire, the woman turned her head and shouted into the house, “Herb, it’s the police. Come and talk to this lady.”

  “May I come in?” Claire asked.

  “Oh, lord, yes. Where are my manners? Please come in. We’re sitting in the living room. The TV is on, but we’re not really watching.”

  When they walked into the room, her husband turned the sound down on the TV, but the contestants on a game show still tried to answer the silent questions. Mr. Owens was taller than his wife but lean as a whip. His lips were thin and drawn in his weathered face. He nodded at her, then pointed at the TV.

  “It’s noise,” he said, “but sometimes noise is good.”

  “Let me say how sorry I am for your son’s death.”

  Mrs. Owens face cracked open, her mouth twisting, and she sat down on the couch and bowed her head.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Owens reached out and shook her hand. “He was a good son to us. The best.”

  “Do you have other children?”

  Mr. Owens shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Did he live with you?”

  “No, he moved out a few years ago. He thought it was time. We miss him, but he stops by nearly every day. He did. He moved into Bay City to be closer to work.”

  Claire asked them for names of friends. Then she asked, “How’d Buck been feeling lately?”

  Mr. Owens looked puzzled.

  “Had he seemed in good spirits?”

  “Well, you know that kid loved this time of year. He’s a hockey player, and he loves to get out onto the lake and skate. He’s always loved winter. Such a big kid, he never got cold. Did he, Mother?”

  Mrs. Owens lifted her head and shook it. “No, it was hard to keep a coat on him. He moved too much. He got too warm all the time.”

  “How old was he?”

  This time Mrs. Owens answered. Claire had noticed that women kept track of such things. “He would turn twenty-five in January. He was born the first of the year. Our New Year’s baby. Remember, Herb?”

  “I sure do. We drank champagne before and after he was born. That’s when women still drank when they had babies. I know they don’t do that now. But Mother was sure happy to have that baby.”

  “Had anything been bothering Buck lately? Had he talked to you about anything? Anything new going on in his life?”

  “Well, he was seeing this new girl,” Mrs. Owens said. “We only met her once. He brought her up here for a barbecue when Herb’s brother and kids were here. I didn’t get to talk to her much. She seemed kinda quiet, but nice enough. Wouldn’t you say, Herb? Nice enough.”

  “Yeah, she seemed fine. Buck liked her. That’s the main thing. We wanted him to be happy.” The older man’s voice broke, and he looked at the TV, blinking rapidly.

  “Were they getting along?” Claire continued with her questions even though she could see she was distressing them.

  “Fine, far as we know.”

  Claire decided to tell them more. They would need to know it sometime. “We’re not sure how your son came to die. It looks like someone tied him into his car and drowned him. But there is a chance he could have done it to himself.” There, it was out in the world. She watched the two parents’ faces sag.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Mr. Owens said first.

  “Not our Buck.”

  “He wasn’t always the smartest kid in school, but he was certainly the happiest.”

  “What if Stephanie had broken up with him?” Claire asked.

  Mrs. Owens waved her hand as if it were her turn to speak. “No way. Buck didn’t abide by taking your own life. He was raised good in the church. He might have moped for a while. I’ve seen him do that. But he would never kill himself. I don’t want to hear no more talk about it.”

  They had the whole week off school, and Meg was glad she was only halfway through the week. Her mother had let her go to the special school down in Stockholm, where she got to play with other kids and help out with the teacher. The kids were pretty little, but she had loved every minute of it. The teacher, whose name was Crystal, made her feel very special. Every afternoon she got to read to the kids.

  Even helping Crystal clean up after the kids left was fun. Then they would sit in her big kitchen and drink tea and eat cookies. It made her think that maybe she would want to be a teacher when she grew up. Maybe she would start her own school.

  When her mother came to get her, she jumped into the car and asked, “Hey, Mom, maybe you could home-school me and I could work for Crystal three days a week, or something like that?”

  Her mother turned out of the driveway and then drove down to the highway before saying, quietly but firmly, “There are child labor laws.”

  “What?”

  “You need to go to school.”

  “Lots of the kids around here are home-schooled.”

  “You are not one of them. I am not one of those parents. Those families have two parents, and one or both of them work at home. There’s just me, and I go to work every day, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Rich could help.”

  “No, he couldn’t.”

  “I bet he would if I asked.”

  “Aside from the fact that he would do anything for you, you are not his responsibility. Plus, he doesn’t have the time.”

  “During the winter he does.”

  “Meg, even if he could, we would not ask him.” Mom was talking in her preachy voice. “He’s a friend of ours. You don’t take advantage of friends. You only ask them for help when you really need it. Understand?”

  “But I bet I could go to some of my friends’ houses and be home-schooled with them. Like the Swansons.”

  “Even if you could, which I’m not so sure of, I don’t really believe in it. I think you should go to school. I think you learn things at school that you won’t at home. I think it’s good for you, especially as an only child, to be with a lot of other kids. But I’ll tell you the most important reason I won’t home-school you—”

  “What?” Meg asked.

  “I think the other kids in school need you. You are smart. You might be one of the smartest kids there. They need smart kids in school. It helps everybody.”

  “But, Mom, I hate school.”

  Her mom looked over at her and then said with real surprise in her voice, “You do? When did that happen?”

  Meg knew she could not tell her mother about her problems with Mr. Turner. Mom
had enough problems on her plate. “I don’t know. Just happened. Too much work and not enough play.”

  “You’re probably right about that. Maybe we should be doing a little more playing at home. I think we’ll be able to go ice-skating very soon. Maybe tonight.”

  “Yes, Mom. Please, please, promise me, whatever happens, we get to go ice-skating tonight.”

  “Well, I will say this—if we get the house cleaned up, the table set for tomorrow, the cranberry sauce made, then we can go down and check the ice.”

  “I know it’s safe. Everybody was talking about it today. Sven is going to clear the ice this year for an ice-skating rink right by the park. That’s what Crystal said.”

  “Sven sure is a nice man.”

  Snooper whined at the door.

  “Yes, we’ll go outside.”

  At the word outside, Snooper stood up on his back legs and twirled.

  “How about a walk? I think we both could use a walk.”

  An even more important word, walk. The twirling continued, and now the tongue came out.

  Stephanie walked over to the hook by the door where she hung the nice new black leather leash she had bought for Snooper at the company store. She had bundled up in two long-sleeved shirts, a sweater, her Packers jacket, a polar fleece hat, old Red Wing boots with two pairs of socks underneath, and flannel-lined jeans. Snooper needed to get dressed too. Looking out the window at the thermometer on the tree, she saw it had dropped to near zero again. It was a brisk one.

  “Come here, Snooper. You need to calm down.” She had also bought him a polar fleece coat at the store with a cutout in the bottom so he could pee without getting it wet. She made him put his two front feet into it, then Velcroed it over his back. It had a high red collar and a green body. With his heavy fur under that, he should stay pretty warm.

  “Okay, let’s go.” She turned the porch light on and stepped outside. The stillness of the woods settled on her. Then she saw what was making it so quiet. Snow was coming down. It must have just started. A sifting of white. Lovely, lovely snow. Inside her something grew, a feeling of hope and possibility. If this soft confection could fall from the sky and transform the world in an hour, surely she could take charge of her life and make it into one she would want.

  Snooper pulled at his leash.

  “Let’s go down to the lake,” she suggested, and again, the happy little dog danced.

  They walked, and the snow fell, light, feathery snow that sailed out of the sky. Around the lampposts in the town, it seemed to swarm like bees around a hive. It started to accumulate on the sidewalks.

  When they got to the town center, they turned down the street going to the park. No cars were parked on the street, no one was outside at all. The new Christmas decorations had been hung last week—large silver bells—and they moved gently in the snow. Everyone in town had contributed money toward the bells. Sven had worked hard to hang them up. He was so proud of them. He told her he had picked them out himself.

  Down on the lake, Stephanie could see two figures out on the ice, one bigger than her and the other about half that size. She slowed her steps; she didn’t really want to talk to anyone. She was leaving. It made no sense to try to get to know anyone. She was gone.

  But she kept moving toward the lake. When Snooper saw the two people on the lake, he strained at his leash to go see them. He was a very friendly dog and liked to greet everyone. Stephanie kept a good hold on him. He would have to be disappointed.

  When she was close to the edge of the lake, she could see who was out on the ice. It was the woman deputy, Claire Watkins, and her daughter. Stephanie wasn’t sure what the little girl’s name was, but she sure was cute. She had on a pair of skates and was trying her darnedest to move around on the ice. Her ankles were bending, and her skates were slipping out from under her. Down she went.

  “Mom, that’s ten. I’ve fallen down ten times so far.”

  “I would have broken every bone in my body,” Claire said. She had on big boots and was sliding around close to her daughter, but not trying to catch her when she fell. That was probably a good idea. That way her daughter would learn more quickly not to fall—there would be incentive.

  Stephanie stood close to them and watched. Snooper started to whine, so she picked him up and cuddled him. He snuggled down into her arms and hid his head in the crook of her sleeve.

  She wanted to have a daughter. One that she would protect so that no man would ever hurt her.

  The snow kept falling.

  Stephanie remembered when she had told the policeman that her boyfriend had hit her. “So move out,” he had said.

  “I don’t want to leave him.”

  “Then I can’t help you.”

  When Jack had broken her arm, she had gone back in to file charges. She went to the same policeman because she thought he would remember her. He had.

  “It’s your own fault,” he had told her.

  She had left without filing. She knew she would get no help there.

  She could step out onto the ice and say that someone was trying to kill her. She could tell this Claire about all that had gone wrong in her life. But Claire had a daughter, and they were having fun skating. Thanksgiving was tomorrow. No one wanted to hear about her problems. Claire would probably blame Stephanie too. Tell her that if she would have only thought more highly of herself, this would have never happened.

  Stephanie had only seen Buck skate once. When she had first started to get to know him, he had invited her to go watch him play hockey. She had been astounded at how graceful he had been on the ice. The ugly duckling became a swan in front of her eyes. But the ice had betrayed him in the end. He had sunk under the ice. It had not held him and let him fly that one last time.

  Tears and snow mixed on her face. She gripped Snooper and turned away from the lake. She needed to pack. It was time to get ready to leave.

  10

  THE big bird was cold, ugly, and awkward. It lay on the kitchen counter like a lump of lard. It was seven o’clock in the morning, and Claire would rather have been in bed. The stuffing was almost ready to go in the turkey. She had precooked the liver and onions on the stove, then folded in the bread crumbs and water. The resultant mélange wasn’t particularly appetizing, a gray, soggy mess.

  Steven had always cooked the turkey—when he was alive. The memory of him in their old kitchen shot through her. Sometimes she missed her dead husband so much the feeling threatened to weaken her knees and tumble her to the floor. She remembered Steven making coffee, humming in the kitchen as he manhandled the turkey into a roaster and slammed it into the oven. He loved cooking big chunks of meat, a beef slab or rack of lamb or humongous turkey.

  Claire had bought a twenty-pounder. According to The Joy of Cooking, this bird would have to cook at least six hours and then sit for another half hour before you carved it. She figured if she got it in by eight, they could easily eat by four.

  Rich said his mother would like to leave by six so she could get home before her bedtime.

  Claire reviewed the menu in her mind: she’d done the cranberry molds last night, and they were chilling in the fridge, Bridget would bring the relish, Rich’s mom the chestnut dressing, the turkey would go in soon, Meg would make the pumpkin pie this morning when she got up. Claire had yet to make mashed potatoes, wild rice, and green beans with almonds. She had bought rolls from Le Pain Perdu. They were all set to go. They wouldn’t go hungry, that was for sure.

  If only Rich’s mother wasn’t coming. If it wasn’t for that, Claire would be totally relaxed. Come to that, she’d be sleeping. They would have eaten at a more fashionable hour.

  The phone rang as she was cramming the stuffing inside the turkey. She knew it could only be one person. “Almost in,” she answered the phone, cradling it on her shoulder so she could keep stuffing.

  “You or the turkey?” Rich asked.

  Claire laughed. She blessed the man who could make her laugh as she was elbow deep inside a t
urkey.

  “I thought you’d be up.”

  “Wish you were here,” she said.

  “Will be soon. I’m heading out to get the matriarch. Hope the drive isn’t too bad. It’s supposed to snow all day long, according to the weather station.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Mom might have to stay with me tonight, if we get too much snow.”

  Claire looked out the window. It was still dark out, but under the streetlights she could see how deep the snow was on the road. Everything looked clean and perfect in this almost completely black-and-white landscape.

  “Have the snowplows been by on the highway?” she asked him.

  “Not yet. But they should be soon. Don’t envy those guys.”

  “Drive careful. I hope you don’t get stuck in Rochester with your mom.”

  “We’d probably have Spam for dinner. She still has that around as a remnant from the cold-war mentality.”

  They said their good-byes and hung up.

  Claire faced the turkey. She hoisted it up and plopped it into the roaster. It just fit. It hadn’t even occurred to her that it might not. She smeared it with butter and salted and peppered it. A short prayer for the perfect turkey to save the day. The oven was preheated. In it went.

  She grabbed the cardamom roll she had heated in the oven, poured herself another cup of coffee, perched on a stool at her counter, and looked out the window. The snow fell so quietly. Everything glowed in its covering. Light showed faintly in the east, over the bluffs, and gently through the snow. The day had started. It would bring what it would bring.

  Mom said she could do it totally herself. She had even given Meg the kitchen and was lounging in the bathtub taking a soaking bath. “As long as someone’s doing something, I can relax,” she had told Meg before she left the room.

  Meg did not want to disappoint her mother. This pie had to be perfect. Mom had already made the crust, chilling in the fridge. The one rule Mom had was that Meg should wait until her mother was done with the bath to put the pie in the oven. “I don’t want you to burn yourself,” she said.

  The way to start, Meg decided, was to put everything out so you could see it all. She got her favorite bowl, a big red one that would be way big enough to hold the pie filling. Mom had already opened the can of pumpkin, and she set that next to the bowl. Then she lined up the spices: nutmeg, cinnamon, mace, and allspice. Her favorite was nutmeg—it smelled the way she thought a fairy might smell.