I hadn’t known there was a porch.
I got up, hit the outhouse, and only then realized there was no running water in there. Just the hole in the board and some old newspapers. Back inside, I saw the pump handle over a sink dug into the counter, which was made of wood. I say that only because it wasn’t refined, pretty cabinet wood but ordinary, rough-cut wood, like it was still part of the tree, only cut into shape.
“It works, go ahead. There’s some bowls on that shelf to your right. And fill up this kettle, we’ll have coffee, tea, or whatever the hell is on those other shelves. Nicely stocked cabin I must say, and someone must use it regularly with the chickens here. Weird to find it empty.”
He was cooking eggs and boiling water in the fireplace, and I washed my face with my hand and wished I had a razor.
Art went on, “There’s a lot of these abandoned cabins scattered around here. Many have ghosts, a lot of homeless pass through in the warm months, campers, hunters, etc. I do some hunting up here. Yesterday I came up on my snowmobile, and the fucker died on me. Just died. It’s almost brand new. And I think it’s cold and dead, not just warm and dead. I don’t think I can fix it. So here I am! Here we are, that is.
“It’s a couple miles back, so I might have to trudge out to it when it stops snowing and get my gear off it. What about you? It’s so unusual to find someone else here, unless they’re hunting, or stashing dope here, ha-ha!”
He put the pan of eggs on what passed for a table, and we sat down on what passed for kitchen chairs. The rest of the room, I could see now, had the bed, the chair I had slept in, and a ratty old couch. The chickens had taken over the couch.
“I was taking pictures with a group, and they walked away and got lost.” Close enough.
He raised one eyebrow and nodded. Yeah, it sounded stupid to me, too.
“Well, it was something like that,” I hedged. “I just had to get one or two more pictures, just that little bit farther, you know? That little bit too far.”
He nodded, sucking in eggs like a vacuum or a wood chipper. “I, too, like to live dangerously,” he said, smirking.
I looked around for napkins, but there weren’t any. Well, when in Rome and all that, I suppose.
When we finished, I offered to wash up the dishes. Of course, there wasn’t any detergent or sponges, so they just got rinsed. He went back up into the attic, and our chickens just ran around and did whatever chickens do, which including pooping everywhere, I presumed.
“Look out below!” came the cry, and some soft packages came hurtling down from above. I was still by the sink and stayed there. “Come up here, you gotta see this!” came a minute later, though.
Sighing heavily, I wiped my hands on my camos and climbed the ladder. Nothing came flying at me this time. There was enough light in the sky now, and reflecting off the snow as well, to show the small room clearly. There were boxes and bags in every corner.
“Chicken food, people food, more clothes, and look at this!”
I looked. I had no idea what was in the packages he was holding out. “More chicken food? Manure? Sugar?”
“Coke, my friend, cocaine. We’ve discovered something someone did not want discovered.”
I shuddered with fear and cold. “Put it back. They could show up and kill us,” was what I blurted, my first thoughts.
He merely sat there, looking like he was thinking. Assuming he was capable of it.
“Put it back where you found it and cover it up again. Maybe if they show up, they won’t know what was really over it. Put anything we don’t need over it. I want nothing to do with this. I don’t even want to know that I know about it. We could be killed!”
“We could be stuck here as long as the owner of this is stuck out of here.” Art looked up at me. He had deep blue eyes, deep as water in the middle of the ocean. In any other situation, I could probably sink right into them. “You want some?” he asked.
“No! No, I don’t want some! Put. It. Back!” I was furious with this idiot. “Here, give it to me, I’ll do it. I’ll hide it so you won’t be tempted, either. I don’t plan on getting killed because you’re a drug addict or as stupid as you look!”
Anger crossed his face, and then he looked wounded. The corner on his left eye started to twitch. He held up some women’s satiny nightgowns. “You want these then? Maybe they’re more your style!” And with that, he went down the ladder, leaving the nightgowns on the floor.
I gazed at the labels as I crawled past them to hide the drugs. They were from a fashion house in Paris, possibly worth more than the cocaine I was busily hiding. Not that that uncouth bear would know anything about fashion.
When I crawled back down, he was pouting on the couch, feeding the chickens by hand. “Chickens don’t like attics,” he said, “Someone put them up there for some reason. There had been a bowl of water, but it was empty. If we hadn’t come along, they’d have all died.”
“You called them dinner at first, remember?” Oh, he was such a lout, I could hardly stand him anymore.
He licked his lips. I rolled my eyes. “Well, now, how about we go cut wood? Are you up for that, or do you want to play dress up in your lingerie?”
I had to blush. The thought of putting those silky garments on over my naked body had crossed my mind. Could he have known?
He laughed. It was getting harder to stay mad at the man, brute though he was. I remembered from my childhood days, when my mother made me go to church, the preacher saying, “Father forgive them, they know not what they do,” or something like that. Maybe I could think of him like that, poor ignorant soul, and forgive him in the old Christian way of my mother. Not that I’d been back inside a church since I’d left home to go to college.
Art dumped the chickens, rooted around in some of the boxes he’d tossed down earlier, and dug out two pairs of thick gloves. There were scarves, too, and I almost delighted in the soft wool, but then he had to spoil it by pulling out two lumberjack hats, you know, the plaid kind with the flaps. Just the same, after I’d checked it for bugs, I put it on. He came over and buckled the strap under my chin and pulled the scarf up over my mouth. He said something in Italian or Spanish, I didn’t know which, but think he was calling me an idiot. I let it go. It wasn’t worth trying to talk through all this wool and flannel.
What was worse was I knew I probably looked just like him. It never crossed my mind to think of how sexy he—we—would look in a leather bar back home.
The wind had died down some. It was still snowing, but almost in a normal fashion, though still heavy. It was piling up evenly. There were tall drifts from the howling wind of yesterday and last night, but now that it was falling fairly straight, and not cutting into your face like tiny knives driven by the wind, it was almost beautiful. Not beautiful enough, however, to go back in and dig out my camera. Besides, I didn’t want to look like a wuss, did I? All dressed up (like a logger) and no place to go, but outside into the woods to cut logs. Ungh…I almost said, like a Neanderthal, as I followed Art’s back into the woods.
When we had visited my grandparents in Wales, it had been early March, and we’d just reached their small house before a blizzard set in. Luckily, we were planning on staying for a week, because we were then, just as now, snowed in, only I had had much nicer company, and they had plenty of food, central heating, and spoiled me rotten. This time, if I wanted to be warm, I’d have to do it myself, well, do my part. I hoped I was up to it. For some reason, I didn’t want this uncouth bear to think I was a weakling. I probably looked as weak as I felt, but I’d try my best.
That was so odd about our last names being the same, though Wales was full of Evans and Jones, but what amused me more was his name meaning bear hero. That was the most appropriate meaning to someone’s name I had ever heard. Even if he did play with the chickens and had no couth whatsoever, he was a bear of a man physically and found food, cooked it, and knew how to keep the cabin, and us, warm. I guess you could call that heroic.
M
y name, I remembered, meant warrior, and I’d live up to it the best I could. Even if the only shooting I’d ever done was with a camera. Oh, and I’d had six weeks of self-defense in college, a requirement or I wouldn’t have bothered, so I guess I knew how to hit people with sticks ten different ways. I’d have to try and recall that skill, just in case the dope owner showed up. Maybe I could use the saw or axe we’d found on the porch like a sword when cutting wood. AIEEE! Wham! I almost smiled. Then I remembered how cold it was and that getting wood to keep from freezing to death wasn’t exactly a joke.
When we stopped, I could just see the cabin back through the trees. I could see the attic window. Someone was standing there, looking out.
“Look,” I said, tugging on Art’s jacket. I pointed back at the cabin, where I could just see a flash of white in the window. It wasn’t snow, it wasn’t fog; it was one of those nightgowns, I could plainly see…no…“Art! Is that a woman?”
“Yes,” he replied calmly, looking away. “Meet our ghost.”
I think my mouth was still flapping open and shut in shock and horror as I learned how to cut wood like a real man of the forest.
As we walked back toward the cabin, many times, carrying wood, Art told me about the area. All I knew was I was in Montana. What else did a city, civilized, man of culture need to know? It was a nice place to visit, but I hadn’t been planning on staying, you know? Fly in, take the tour, maybe see a museum if they had any, and fly home with tons of images, as the professional photographers say, you know, the ones who are just in it for the money.
“This whole area,” Art said, “is full of ghosts. The Garnett Mountains are, to me, the most beautiful place in the world, and like all beautiful places, is haunted. That’s as it should be; who would want to leave this place, alive or dead?”
“Wales is like that,” I blurted, trying not to stagger under my load of two logs. He-Man had four. I didn’t really want a history lesson of this place, I just wanted to live long enough to go home. And never see this place, or him, again. Or a plaid flannel shirt, huge woolen mittens, or a cap with ear flaps. Just to indulge my sarcastic nature, I said, “Roast chicken would taste good tonight, wouldn’t it?”
Art replied, not even breathing hard, “Which one of the two that slept on you would you like to kill? I can show you how to wring their necks, and then you scald its dead body and pull the feathers out.”
“Or we could just eat eggs,” I said as quickly as I could and still breathe. “Eggs are good.”
Art chuckled. As we dumped our last load, Art tilted his head, and said, “Listen. Do you hear that?”
Alarmed, I said, “No,” as quietly as I could.
“I thought I heard a snowmobile, but, no, I don’t hear anything now. And, oh, there’s plenty of canned food still in the attic. I’ll bring some down, and we’ll have a feast; beans, Spam, you name it!”
Beans and Spam. Should be great farting weather inside tonight, I thought nastily.
Art opened the door, kicking snow off his boots. He waved for me to go in first. “Well,” he said to my back, “As long as we don’t hear banjos, we’re good!”
Ah, yes, the movie that gave banjos a really bad name. Deliverance I think it was. Great. I jumped when he clapped me on the shoulder.
“You did great out there for a skinny little fart like yourself. Much better than I had expected from you.”
Oh, man, feel the burn. I ignored him as he started jumping around going boo, hoping to scare me. I was scared enough already now, and not just of the ghost in the attic.
* * * *
“Man, I need a shower,” Art said, stretching kinks out of his back. “Or better yet…yes, this is the cabin with the exquisite outdoor steam room! Sauna! Whatever you call it. See that little shed over there?” Art had pulled me over to the kitchen window and was pointing toward what looked like a pile of dead trees. “If I remember right. Come on, let’s go check! It’s damn small, but, man, wouldn’t that feel good?” He had the nerve to ruffle my hair.
“Leave me alone!” I said to his retreating back.
He flung open the door and left it open for me. I was curious, so I followed him out into the snow. He acted like a snowplow for me, which was nice. Without the shelter of the woods, the snow was crotch deep. He was laughing. I could feel everything between my belly button and my knees suck back up inside me in fear of being frozen. But not Art. He reached the mess, dug down, opened what looked like a trap door, and then descended into the dark hole. I followed like a pet dog with the IQ of a brain-damaged puppy.
It was small inside, but very cozy. I could see some benches and a stove or something and a pipe going out the roof, which was so low that we were both practically squatting. Art fumbled around and suddenly there was light.
“Yes!” he squealed. “Shut that door, buddy, and let’s get out of these dirty clothes. Last one naked is a monkey!”
I didn’t want to see him naked. I didn’t want to be naked. I didn’t want both of us to be naked, crammed together in this tiny little cozy space. Nonetheless, I did want to be clean, and he was leering at me like a pirate at a bottle of rum, or like an older brother. And I had three older brothers, so I was rather intimidated. I started stripping, and it felt good to get the snow-soaked, heavy woolen and camo crap off me.
Well, what can I say? What he did next was not at all brotherly. At first, he held out a huge rough sponge and asked me to scrub his back. Then he bent over and pointed at his ass and legs, so I scrubbed them, too. By this time, there was so much steam, I could barely see him so it didn’t really matter. Then he took the sponge out of my hand and twirled me around as if I were a ballerina and maybe compared to him, size wise, I was. And he started scrubbing my back, and lower, and, uh, it felt really, really good.
Since I had my back to him, he couldn’t see just how really, really good it felt! And I wanted it to stay that way. Unfortunately, a hard dick is not something you can just tap gently and say down boy to and have it obey. At least, I couldn’t, and I didn’t even like the guy. I didn’t think this whole scenario could get much worse, but then it did.
“Outside now! Run and roll in the snow!” He-Man yelled.
Was I on fire? What now? But he pushed open the door, and I got to see his naked ass leap up the steps on his overly muscled legs, and God help me, I followed, because something was on fire. He grabbed my hand and threw me into a snowbank, and I rolled like a damn monkey and screamed like a fox.
“Knock it off, pussy,” he called from his own snowbank. “You sound like a fox in heat, and they’ll be all over us, plus all the wolves and coyotes in a ten-mile area!” And then the son of a bitch threw a snowball at me.
That was the shortest and most intense snowball fight I ever had, and remember, I grew up with three older brothers. This asshole, however, had me in a wrestling hold, I think, face down in the snow, with his hairy ice cold but still warm body smothering my back. In any other situation or place, it might have been fun, but I couldn’t stand this animal. He was all beast and for sure no beauty.
“Fuck me!” he shouted happily, smearing my face in the snow. “It’s a bit nippy out here!”
“Fuck you?” I shouted back, finally bucking him off me. “Fuck you? Let me find a piece of that wood we just cut, and I’ll gladly shove it up your chocolate hot dog hallway!”
“Promises, promises,” he said happily, rubbing snow on my face. He went back down the doorway, and I ran straight to the cabin, stark naked, hearing him howl like a fox behind me.
Somewhat later, back in the cabin, I was dressed in my own clothing, which had finally dried. I’d brought armloads of wood inside and stacked them in a corner near, but not too near, the fireplace. I’d pried open several cans of beans and Spam and dumped them all into the same pot, adding a can of mixed vegetables I’d found on the shelves. He could build the fire when he got here. I’d thought about locking the door, but no. I was the civilized one, remember.
Finally, he came
inside, picked up his clothes, and put them on. He looked me right in the eye, tilted his head, and asked, “Chocolate hot dog hallway?”
I blushed. At least it wasn’t a gay term, so I had no fear that he might suspect anything.
“I’ve heard it called Aladdin’s haggis, but that’s a new one on me.”
“Haggis is Scotch,” I said primly.
“What’s this shit?” Art said, looking at the mess in the cooking pot.
“Haggis.” I tried to stay pissed, but the look he gave me was so warm and confused, and then he started laughing so hard, I couldn’t stay angry. I tried, but just couldn’t do it. Even worse, I had to admit to myself that I’d had more fun that day than any time in the previous six months.
Once the haggis had heated, it wasn’t so bad, and believe it or not, Art found beer. He was a genius or something. Anyhow, after a couple of beers and plenty of hot whatever-the-hell we ate, it was very comfortable. Instead of a television or music, we had chickens, but I was actually starting to like them. Some were even affectionate, if you can believe it, and I was starting to. They weren’t much for conversation, though. Maybe they should have had some beer, too.
Well, being a civilized gentleman, I turned to conversation with—sigh—what I had. Art. Arthus Evans; bear hero. “So, Mr. Evans,” I started, interrupting myself with a gentlemanly burp, “Come here often?”
“As a matter of fact, I do haunt this area. What about you, Mr. Evans?”
“First time. I’ve been interested in scenic photography. One of my relatives was photographer Walker Evans, who was also g…only married once. I’m not married. It didn’t work for him.” What the hell had just happened to my mouth and brain? Was it the beer? Well, I’d gotten the photographer part right, and the rest was also true. But that g…I’d have to watch that.
“I read about him in college,” Art said calmly. “Something about marrying a girl thirty years younger, and it didn’t work out. I can relate.”
“Oh, you’ve been married?”
Andrew and Art Page 2