by Alan Elsner
“But they're yours, Dad.”
“Then I'd like you to take care of them for me. I never look at them anyway. We'll put them in your car tomorrow so you don't forget to take them.”
Lynn was looking at a picture of my parents taken some time in the late 1950s, shortly after I was born. “She's so pretty. What happened to her?” she asked. “You never mention her.”
All life left the room. The temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees. My father held himself stiff and edged imperceptibly away from me on the sofa and closed the album. I looked at Lynn and took her hand. A glacial paralysis had enveloped me. I had to break out of it, and there was only one way to do that.
“I'll tell you,” I said, holding on to her hand.
“No, Marek, don't!” my father shouted.
“You would have found out sooner or later. Now is as good a time as any,” I said, disregarding him.
“Don't do this to yourself,” he said.
“I was in the seventh grade, and I'd been sent to the principal's office for messing around in class that day. I missed the school bus; I had to call my mom. She said she'd come get me, that she'd be there in a quarter of an hour. It was a rainy, windy day, like when we drove home from Charlottesville last week.” A lump formed in my throat, but I held my voice steady.
“I waited and waited, but she never showed up. I thought maybe she was punishing me. An hour later, or maybe more—I can't really remember—a policeman came and took me home. They told me she skidded on the road, and the car hit a tree. She was already dead by the time they got her to the hospital. That phone conversation was the last time I heard her voice.” A huge, wrenching sob was stuck somewhere in my throat, but it wouldn't come out. I took off my glasses and started polishing them, blinking unshed tears from my eyes. Lynn's hand was stroking the back of mine.
My father sat motionless at the other end of the sofa. He was enraged, but he would never let his true feelings out. Since the day my mother died, there were two things my father and I had never done: we had never washed our dirty linen in public, and we had never expressed our true feelings. Now I had broken the first taboo.
He cleared his throat. “I suppose that you feel a sense of relief, of—what's the word they always use? A sense of closure.” He said the word scornfully.
“I wanted Lynn to know what happened.”
“Why did she need to know? After all these years, why can't you forgive yourself and forget about it?”
“Dad, I have nothing to forgive myself for. And I will never, ever forget about it, any more than you will. My whole life, everything I do, is based on memory. For a long time, I did blame myself. I told myself, If only I'd been a good boy, if only I hadn't misbehaved. But I didn't kill her. It was an accident. It wasn't my fault. I stopped blaming myself years ago. What I'm wondering, Dad, is whether you're ever going to stop blaming me. That's the real question.”
A long, charged silence. Nobody moved. My father breathed. He stood up and left the room, closing the door behind him. Lynn said nothing. Now she knew everything about me. I had given her the dark key to my soul. We remained on the couch for a while, but there was a distance between us. I could feel her pitying me. Could a woman as lovely as the beautiful mill girl ever love someone as messed up as me?
Next morning, my father had reverted to his role of avuncular host. He was almost too jolly, cooking us a mountain of French toast for breakfast, singing the praises of the local maple syrup in terms usually reserved for a rare vintage wine. Clearly the previous day's conversation had never happened. I decided to play along. We were both masters at this game.
We drove down to the village in his four-wheel drive to buy supplies. First, though, we had to pick up the newspaper and wait while he went through all the coupons. On the way back, we stopped at the bottom of the hill, where my car was parked. At his insistence, we transferred the precious photo albums to the trunk. He acted relieved to be rid of them. Once they were stowed alongside my briefcase, he abruptly stepped forward and gave me an awkward hug. Surprised, I returned the embrace. Lynn silently squeezed my hand when I got back in the truck.
It snowed lightly again that afternoon, adding a fresh inch or two. For a while, Lynn and I watched the flakes falling. She read her book, and I fell asleep on the couch. When I woke up, the skies had cleared, and the sun was beginning to set. I decided to call Susan Scott. When I picked up the phone, there was no dial tone.
“Dad, there's something wrong with your phone. Could the snow have brought the line down?” I asked.
“It's never happened before,” he replied.
The hair bristled at the back of my neck. My heart started thumping.
“You think someone's out there?” Lynn asked.
“I don't know. Maybe. I wish the police hadn't taken your gun. All I have is my pepper spray.”
“Peppers? What are you talking about? What's going on?” Dad said, bewildered.
“We may be in danger.”
“Danger? What danger?”
“Nazis. They attacked us outside my apartment a few days ago, and they may be here now.”
“Nazis?” He laughed. “Now I know you're crazy.”
“No, Dad, we're serious.”
“There haven't been any Nazis since 1945. And besides, this is America.”
“Not real Nazis, neo-Nazis.”
“Ah, neo-Nazis. Of course. How stupid of me. That explains everything.”
Lynn took him gently by the arm. “Mr. Cain, Jacob, I know this sounds unlikely but there totally are neo-Nazis in America, and they did try to attack your son. I was there. He's not joking.”
“Who attacked you? What happened? What's going on?”
“I'm sorry, Dad, I didn't want to worry you. Lock the door, and I'll tell you everything.”
“What nonsense! I don't believe what you are saying. Such things do not happen. Maybe in Europe. Not in America,” he said doubtfully. He could see we were serious. Lynn went to the door and slid the bolt into place.
“That ought to hold,” she said. “Are there any other doors?”
“No,” I said and glanced out the window for movement or bright colors that didn't belong. Nothing. If anyone was out there, he wouldn't want to hang around for long in the cold. The last hues of sunset were slowly draining from the sky; the snow still reflected a rosy tinge, but that, too, was fading. The trees in front of the house were already half swallowed by the encroaching blackness. Maybe we could try to reach the truck and make a run for it. In their place, the first thing I would have done was immobilize the vehicle. Too risky.
“They'll wait until it's completely dark,” I muttered.
“Are the windows secure?” Lynn asked.
“All are barred except the workroom at the back,” Dad said. “But the hill behind the house is steep. A person wouldn't be able to get in that way, unless he was a ghost.” He still hadn't accepted that this was no joke.
“Let's see,” I said.
He led us through the house. One window at the back of the workroom commanded a spectacular view down the side of a slope that fell precariously to a field of virgin white. A harvest moon—so huge and round it seemed unreal—cast a dim glow, floating low in the sky like a massive orange balloon. The window was just big enough for a man to climb through, but it would be difficult because of the way the ground fell away. If anyone tried to enter, we'd have time to take care of him.
What next? I didn't have a clue. There was a hunting rifle leaning against the wall, next to a pair of cross-country skis and a plastic sled. “Does that thing work?” I asked.
“It can take down a moose,” he replied.
“Is it loaded?”
“No.”
“Then load it. If I'm wrong, there's no harm done, and you can have a good laugh at your crazy son.” I had no proof at all, just an incredibly strong feeling, but I was learning to trust my feelings.
“Do you have any other weapons?”
“I hav
e a pistol from my liquor store days, a Colt Commander.” He went to a cupboard and took it out.
“Will it fire?”
“I keep my things in good shape.”
“They'll probably try to weasel their way in through the front door,” I said. “They have no reason to think we'd be suspicious.”
“Then maybe we should surprise them,” Lynn suggested.
If anyone came, we needed to hit hard. I studied the layout. The front door opened into a hallway leading to the kitchen, with rooms on either side. At the back of the kitchen, five steps led down to the workroom.
“Help me lay this on its side,” I told my dad, indicating the kitchen table, a massive antique that had been in the family ever since I could recall. We tipped it over and dragged it in front of the kitchen door. “Do you know how to use this thing?” I asked Lynn, handing her the Colt.
“You unlock the safety and pull the trigger, right?” She was amazing—calm, brave, beautiful. I loved her. And I was the one who had brought her here, leading her into danger. I'd give my life to keep her safe.
I made them crouch behind the table with their weapons while I took up a position by the front door. “This is what we'll do.” I said. “When I open the door, you both shoot. Aim high, above their heads. If you hit them by accident, so be it. As soon as you've fired, I'll slam the door shut.”
“Then what?” Lynn said.
“Then hopefully they'll realize we mean business, and they'll go away.”
“Hopefully?” she said. She didn't sound all that hopeful.
“What do you mean ‘shoot’?” my dad said. “You can't just shoot at someone. It could be anyone there.”
“Dad, when was the last time anyone visited you on a night like this?”
“People never visit me at night. They don't come much during the daytime, either.”
“So if someone does knock on the door, they're not likely to be asking for a jug of milk or a donation to the Salvation Army,” I said.
We lapsed into tense silence as he digested this. A faucet was dripping in an upstairs bedroom, and the kitchen clock was ticking like a bomb. He and Lynn occasionally shifted positions, their impatience mounting. After twenty minutes crouching behind the table, he'd had enough. “This is ridiculous,” he snorted, struggling to his feet. “There's nobody there.”
“Dad, get back behind the—“
A sharp knock on the door. Lynn yanked him back behind the table.
“Who's there?” I shouted.
“Police. We found a strange car down your driveway.”
“What's your name?”
A pause. “Sergeant Jenkins,” the voice called. My dad shook his head gravely.
“Which station house?” I yelled back.
Another pause. “County police,” the voice replied.
“Go away.”
“Open up,” the voice shouted again.
“Get lost,” I volleyed.
The door shuddered. They're trying to break in. It was only a matter of time. We couldn't just wait there. Biting down my fear, I gestured to Lynn and my dad to get ready. She nodded, leveling her weapon. My dad looked stunned. Not surprising, considering the way his entire world had been turned upside down in the space of half an hour. I just hoped he would keep his head down behind the table.
I waited another second, drew the bolt on the door, and swung it open as fast as I could, crushing myself between the door and the wall.
“Now!” I screamed. Lynn fired. The blast was numbing. The man in the doorway dropped to the ground, a big heavy guy, like the one who attacked us in D. C.
“Christ, they're armed! Get back, get back!” someone shouted. A couple of bullets hit the kitchen table, ripping scars in the wood. Glass shattered, and I switched the light off, plunging the house into darkness.
“Shut the door!” Lynn shouted.
The man lying in the doorway was blocking it. I slammed the door into his fat body, and he screamed in pain. He scrambled to his knees, and I kicked him in the guts as hard as I could. He flopped down, still in the way. One of his buddies pushed the door from the other side, trying to shoulder his way into the house.
“You're dead, you fucking pigs!” someone yelled. Then another burst of gunfire.
“Open it!” my father commanded. His rifle was sticking over the tabletop. Swinging the door back, I cleared a line of fire. His rifle boomed in the narrow corridor. There was a shriek of terror as I slammed and bolted the door. I dived behind the table. My ears were ringing. I was shaking uncontrollably. So was Lynn.
“Dad, are you all right?”
“So far,” he said. He seemed unnaturally serene; maybe he was in shock. I was ready to throw up.
“What next?” he asked, revealing the strength that had carried him and his generation through so many horrors.
“Hopefully they'll go away now,” Lynn mocked as a burst of gunfire smashed through the window. We hunkered down behind the table.
“You're all dead meat, you fuckers!” one shouted.
“Yeah, we're gonna slice you up and chop you into little pieces,” yelled another voice, betraying a strong hillbilly accent.
“What do we do?” my father asked.
“Wait them out,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “They can't break through that door. They know we'll shoot them if they try. Did either of you see how many there were?”
“Three, maybe four. Did I hit one of them?” Lynn asked.
“I don't think so,” I said uncertainly.
A raw wind blew through shattered windows, billowing the curtains like sails. Thank God for window bars. We could hear them scurrying around the house, checking it from all sides.
Lynn stood. “I have to pee,” she announced.
“Can't it wait?”
“No, goddammit, it can't!”
“All right. But crawl. And be careful where you put your hands. You don't want to cut yourself.”
She crawled off, sweeping her path clear of broken glass.
“How you doing?” I asked my dad.
“I'm not as young as I used to be.” He shrugged.
“Nor as old as you're gonna be.”
Lynn returned. “That was fast,” I said. “What's wrong?”
“Something's burning,” she said. We all sniffed the air.
“She's right,” Dad said.
Then it hit me. “They've set fire to the woodshed, maybe even the wood stacked outside the cabin.” Maybe even the cabin itself.
What now? We had a little time, but not much. The fire would soon catch hold; the snow might slow it down a bit, but not for long.
“The back window's our only shot,” I decided.
“They may be waiting for us,” Lynn warned.
“There's nowhere to wait. You saw how the ground falls away from the back of the house. We have no other choice. We have to get out of here. Dad, I saw a pair of cross-country skis in the workroom. Can you ski down that slope?”
“Ten years ago I could have. Now I'm not sure.”
“What if your life depended on it?”
He smiled. “Well, if you put it like that… What about you two?”
The smoke was thickening, and there was something else—the deep-throated roar of a fire about to run wild.
“There was also a plastic sled in the workroom.”
“I use it for dragging firewood into the house.”
“We don't have much time,” I said. “Dad, get your ski boots on quickly.”
We crawled back to the workroom. Opening the window quietly, I peered out. No sign of the enemy. The moon was higher now and smaller, a silver coin haloed in a starry sky. There was no choice. If we stayed, we'd burn to death.
“Lynn, you first,” I said. She perched awkwardly on a picnic basket, swung a leg over the window ledge, and lowered herself to the ground. She couldn't quite reach and landed clumsily, scrabbling for a foothold, sliding a little way down the slope before stopping herself. I handed her t
he backpacks, the skis and poles, and the sled.
“Go on, Dad,” I said. He clambered up and squeezed through the narrow space. A fall now would be fatal. Lynn caught him as he flopped to the ground. I handed her the rifle. There was a large crash somewhere; the roof of the woodshed had partially collapsed.
I climbed through the window. “The fire's spreading,” she hissed. “Hurry!”
17
I don't know what happened to me, nor who gave me the idea;
I had to go down there…
—“WHITHER” BY WILHELM MÜLLER, MUSIC BY FRANZ SCHUBERT
OUR BODIES WERE SILHOUETTED black against the snow. Had anyone been looking, we would have been sitting ducks. The first hundred feet were too steep to ski. My dad set off on foot, skis tucked awkwardly under one arm. I breathed short, shallow breaths and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other while keeping my balance with the rifle under one arm and the ski poles under the other. Lynn carried the plastic sled, no more than a child's toy. Would it hold us both? Every few seconds, I looked back for signs of pursuit.
Flames had engulfed the woodshed completely and were spreading to the house. Snow sizzled on the roof as the fire growled and hissed, like a savage, caged animal that suddenly finds itself unchained. Sparks sprayed high in the air, as if from a fiery fountain. My dad heard the noise, too. “Don't look back,” I told him. “Keep on moving.” Salty tears were forming in his eyes.
Traversing the slope, up to our shins in snow, pants sodden, feet frozen, grabbing at shrubs for balance, we moved as unsteadily as toddlers.
“Another little bit, and we'll be safe,” Dad panted. I looked back again and instantly lost my footing. Lynn shrieked as I rolled down the slope, dropping the ski poles, reaching out to grab anything to halt my fall, finally crashing shoulder-first into a boulder twenty feet away. The pain was intense. I ground my teeth together so as not to make a sound.
The others scrambled down to join me, Lynn retrieving the ski poles on the way. Where was the rifle? A couple of yards away, my dad picked it up and brought it to me.
“Are you okay?” Lynn whispered. One of my arms was numb, but that was the least of our troubles. A distant shout, barely audible, rose above the conflagration. Lynn's cry had alerted them; perhaps they had seen us moving below. They were coming after us.