Ice-Out

by Mary Casanova

  Despair ran through his veins like lead, weighing him down. If he jumped, the cold and powerful current would end his pain. His chest tightened, making it harder and harder to breathe. Beneath him, the water and ice churned and clanked and clanged, filling his head, beckoning.

  He loosened his grip on the support cables.

  He wiggled his toes in his socks.

  He let go of the cable and balanced on a single steel rail.

  Fall forward.

  Let go.

  End the pain.

  End it all.

  He closed his eyes, asked God for forgiveness, and filled his lungs with one last breath of air. But when he opened his eyes, something passed beneath the bridge, startling him. Owen nearly fell headlong but instinctively reached for the cable with one hand and caught himself. He looked again. Yes, there was definitely something riding along on top of an ice floe. A big dog?

  Giant pieces of ice turned and flipped in the current, rising vertically to catch the sun and reflect it back with blinding light, then dropped to the water again. It was like watching the last breaths of someone before the end. Fleeting moments of the exquisite in the face of imminent decay and dissolution.

  And then, there it was. Not a dog at all, but a doe, standing on its split hooves, balancing on a giant plate of ice as it made its way under the bridge to the source of the river. The miniature iceberg floated, following the swirling current, and the doe rode the ice, as if in a death-defying performance. Maybe she had been trying to cross from island to island when the ice beneath her hooves broke loose from the whole. Rather than jump, she rode the small glacier downstream.

  Suddenly the deer jumped into the river. The moving ice, in all its gathering jigsaw pieces, was closing in around her. I worried the doe would be crushed. But she kept her head high and swam hard. I felt like God, watching from above, wishing her well but unable to intervene. Her choices, too, had consequences.

  I cheered her on. C’mon!

  A turn here, an opening there, she found her way through an ever-tightening maze of ice and swam the last few yards of open water to freedom. The moment her feet hit shore, she bounded into the thicket and disappeared.

  28

  OWEN STARED AT THE RANIER BANK CALENDAR ON THE creamery wall.

  The day had arrived and he gritted his teeth.

  April 13.

  The deadline.

  Yet everything had changed with a single deer.

  In those moments at the bridge, when in a fraction of a second he was willing to end it all, he’d been distracted by a doe. He’d watched her struggle and survive. And with that—turning from the roiling, numbing waters below that promised silence for his pain—he’d walked home. He’d made a clear decision then. And he needed to make a decision now. He needed to face Pengler—no matter the outcome.

  When he didn’t find Pengler at the White Turtle, he drove east to the farmstead and parked between the house and barn. A chickadee called from the bare branches of an apple tree—chick-a-dee-dee-dee—as Owen pounded on the door of the two-story farmhouse.

  There was no answer.

  Then Pengler yelled. “Top of the morning to ya!” Owen turned.

  Teetering high above the ground in the barn’s hay door, with a pitchfork in hand, Pengler shouted, “Over here, Owen!” His voice was overly enthusiastic.

  He was drunk.

  Outside the barn and within the fenced paddock, Ace-in-the-Hole and three other horses pranced and whinnied in anticipation. Pengler tossed down a pitchfork of loose hay. The moment the hay hit the ground, the horses dropped their heads and turned to eating. “There ya go!” Pengler called.

  Owen headed to the barn and stepped inside, just as Pengler started down the loft ladder.

  “I can’t pay for the sugar or the dump truck!” Owen yelled to Pengler’s back.

  “That so?” Pengler’s boots touched the barn floor. He turned, eyebrows furrowed, hand still gripping the pitchfork handle, its sharp prongs angled at Owen. “You and Jerry owe me. And it’s no small sum.”

  “I know, Harvey. But today’s the deadline, and if you have to have the money today, then just knock me off. Get it over with!”

  Pengler huffed. “Too early in the day for that. Haven’t even had my coffee yet.” Then he set the pitchfork in the corner and headed out of the barn toward the farmhouse. “Well? Are you coming?”

  Owen followed him into the kitchen, a cheery shade of yellow. Pengler percolated a white enamel coffeepot over a new gas stove, filled two blue-and-white cups, and sat across from Owen.

  How was he supposed to have a cup of coffee while bracing himself for the worst? Threats to his family. A grisly beating and eventual death. The kind of stuff he’d read about in big cities.

  “I’m a wreck,” Pengler said with a sigh. And it was true. Beneath his eyes, gray pockets had formed. Stubble covered his chin and he smelled of sweat. “I never knew how much Jimmy meant to me. It’s like losing his mother all over again. I’m not sure how to go on.”

  This wasn’t at all what Owen had expected. He didn’t know how to respond.

  Pengler extended his arms wide. “I’m building an empire up here, with a landing strip out beyond my fields for my plane to come and go. More product and demand with every passing day. But what the hell does any of it matter? Why do any of this if you don’t have family, someone to live for?” His eyes watered and he leveled his gaze at Owen. “Y’know?”

  Owen nodded. He understood more than Pengler could know.

  When Pengler rose and opened a cupboard, Owen’s guard shot up again. Maybe this was it. Pengler was drunk, but not too drunk to remember the mountain of debt. He was probably going for his pistol.

  Instead, Pengler returned with two glasses and an unopened bottle. “Best homemade gin you’ll find south of the border. I’ve come up with a perfect formula. Have a drink with me.”

  “No thanks,” Owen said. “And Harvey, from the looks of you, you’ve had plenty to drink.”

  “No I haven’t—” he began, then stopped himself. “Yeah, I have—ever since that blasted Vandyke took Jimmy. He could have ripped my heart out of my chest, it would have been the same thing.” Pengler started to cry.

  Owen went to the icebox, which was nearly bare. He pulled out cheese, salami, and a jar of pickled herring. He found hardtack and set it all out on the table. “Eat something, Harvey. Then go back to bed and get some sleep. You’re never going to get Jimmy back looking and acting like this.”

  Harvey obeyed as if he were a child.

  “I’m not saying I won’t cover my debt,” Owen said, sitting back down. He wanted to leave, but he also wanted to make sure Harvey ate. “But it’s not going to be today. It might take me a year, it might take me ten. That’s just the way it is.”

  Harvey looked up at him, without a hint of malice or judgment in his eyes. “You’re being square with me. I appreciate that. So . . . okay.”

  “Okay?”

  Harvey nodded. “Now get outta here before I change my mind.” Then he reached for the bottle of gin.

  As Owen drove back to town, anger built like hot steam in his belly. If he and Jerry had talked to Pengler and told him they didn’t have the money, things would be different. If he and Jerry hadn’t been so desperate to come up with cash—scratching around in the dirt like chickens—Jerry would still be alive.

  The enormity of it hit him hard.

  He swore out loud as tears rolled hot down his face.

  Once the lake sheds its frigid layer, you never know what its shoreline will reveal: boards from docks, a wagon wheel, a dead dog, a bottle of rotgut . . . Eventually, scavengers—human, animal, and bird—come along and clean it up.

  At the end of the pier, I wait for the distant rumbling of the train. On the water, ducks of various breeds put on their annual spring show. Two goldeneye males, each with distinctive black and white markings, chase each other across the water until one sends the other packing; then the winner tosses
his head back and forth in triumph. Goal achieved, he settles in, side by side with his rather plain partner, paddling off together like a couple on a morning drive.

  A mallard drake with iridescent emerald feathers quacks and quacks until he mounts his brown mate, seemingly drowning her. But not long after, she bobs up to the surface, and they drift off together.

  A half dozen male mergansers with tufted heads chase each other, flapping across the water, diving underwater and popping up again at some distance, while the object of their affection swims calmly, seemingly indifferent to the commotion she is causing.

  Now that the lake is open, loggers will move another harvest down the lake, sluice timber under the lift bridge, and send their winter harvest downriver to the mill.

  You try to take comfort in the commonness of it all, to quiet your nerves as the dock beams vibrate below, announcing the train’s arrival, only minutes away. It will bring the season’s first tourists; they’ll take the steamer to their summer places. The wealthiest lake people will have already hired staff to open their lodges and cabins, air them out, plump the pillows, prime water pumps, and clear fallen trees from paths.

  If Trinity hadn’t written about a boat ride to her island, I wouldn’t be here. She’s traveling with Sadie Rose, of course, who’s returning from college for the summer.

  My heart flips and flops like a fish yanked from water. Sadie and I haven’t written a word to each other or spoken over the telephone in nearly two months. Any sane person would assume it was over between us, but I can’t help myself. I want to see her.

  Brakes screech.

  Pistons hiss.

  I take off my cap, the wool too hot in the midmorning sun, wipe my palms on my trousers, and set off to meet them.

  29

  LATE MORNING, THE THIRD WEEK OF MAY, THE NORTHbound train rumbled and wheezed to a stop in front of the depot.

  Owen hung back in an alcove near the ticket window.

  In a floral sheath that skimmed her breasts and hugged her hips, bobbed waves softly framing her heart-shaped face, Sadie Rose stepped off the train and onto the platform.

  At the sight of her, Owen’s heart seized up.

  Carrying two suitcases, head high, she scanned the crowd. Anyone else would have seen a young, confident woman, just back from college. She carried herself well: shoulders back and a cutting fashion. Yet her gray eyes held uncertainty, as if she’d been preparing for this moment.

  He longed to catch her in his arms, to feel her warm breath against his neck as she pressed her head under his chin. But everything was different now. He remained in the shadows, leaning against the wall.

  “Sadie Rose, dear!” Mrs. Worthington called out, waving a pleated fan in the air. “Over here!”

  Spotting the Worthingtons and her grandparents, Sadie’s eyes brightened. Her cautious expression gave way to a smile. She looked around again—as if waiting for someone else—then stepped off the platform.

  Trinity followed. The silver headband encircling her short blonde hair matched her dazzling smile. She waved. “Owen! You didn’t forget me!”

  Sadie turned her head in his direction. When her eyes met his, she lifted her hand in a simple wave and mouthed something to him, but he couldn’t read her lips.

  He lifted his hand and waved.

  Then Hans was at Sadie’s side, gathering her luggage from her hands and leading her toward the Worthingtons.

  An aching hollowness filled him.

  He longed for her. Yet it was something more than their being apart for so long. He’d changed. Where she’d once filled his heart, something cold and impenetrable had settled in. It was as if he’d gone through the ice with Jerry, only he was still breathing, his heart was still beating, with no hope of surfacing again. He felt as if he were watching himself stand there, numb and unable to respond.

  Trinity left her luggage by the platform and ran up to him.

  “Owen Jensen!” She stood on tiptoes and hugged him. Though she came from a well-to-do family, she never put on false manners or airs. It was something he’d always liked about her. “I’m a modern woman, but I hope you’re not going to leave me alone to handle all my luggage. Could you give me a hand? It’s over there.”

  She pointed to the small tower of luggage, topped off with a cherry-red hatbox.

  He nodded. His words came out as if someone else were in charge now, pretending to be him. “Sure. I’ll get a cart.”

  In minutes, he loaded one of the available carts, rolled it over to the pier where he kept his boat, then returned it to the depot. By the time he got back to the dock, he was both saddened and relieved to find that Sadie Rose and her family were gone.

  Owen started his boat motor and left the pier with its bustle of passengers boarding the steamer. As he motored with Trinity out into the bay, the bow cutting through the glassy surface, he began to settle back into his own skin. He began to breathe a little easier. The lake had a way of making the surrounding gray clouds fluff into giant popcorn clouds of white high above. Lake clouds. Of course the scientific reason had to do with temperature, humidity, and barometric pressure, but Owen liked to think the lake had its own mystical power to drive away the darkest moods.

  He filled his lungs with pine-fresh air, rich in oxygen and moisture. The morning sun painted the water in dabs of peach and blue. Pelicans, scattered across the bay like white sails, lifted one by one to the air, until they were drifting overhead.

  As the bow cut through the water, a loon surfaced off to their right, eyeing them with its red eye, before disappearing below again.

  Wrapped in a powder-blue sweater, Trinity glanced over her shoulder at him and smiled. “I love being home!” she called above the motor.

  Owen nodded and smiled.

  Then she faced forward again.

  Though a bit terrifying to think about, Owen hoped that her time at the asylum had helped her. He’d liked Trinity’s spirited ways, but after her outburst two summers ago, he’d felt cautious around her. Not afraid, just wondering when she’d find her way back to her old self. This morning, he was hopeful that she had.

  He drew in another breath of lake-scented air.

  A guy didn’t have to spend time in an asylum for mental treatment, or go away to college, or live in a big city to appreciate being on the water. Life on the mainland was one thing; being on the water was another. He’d forgotten how much he loved cruising the lake. On the open water, he could leave everything else behind.

  He met a white tugboat pulling its lasso of logs, destined for the mill, and veered wide, then continued east on Sand Bay past islands, peninsulas, and the American shore. Not until he spotted Baird’s Island and Trinity’s log cabin did it hit him. The ice and snow were gone, but the memories returned in full force.

  “Let’s drop my things off here,” Trinity said, motioning to the small cove beside her cabin. “Then we won’t have to carry them over.”

  “Uh, sure,” he said, slowing the motor. It made sense, not going to the other side of the island to the long dock, where the family kept the yacht named Trinity.

  The boat pulsed slowly forward into the cove. A pair of mergansers scuttled out from the shore, then beat their wings over the water and flew off.

  Trinity jumped off the bow, deftly grabbing the line, and secured the boat to the low cedar. Then she disappeared to the front of the cabin, which was still boarded up. Owen sat there. He pictured Vandyke and Kranlin, the fire they’d built, how they’d managed to warm up and dry off to survive. He turned his gaze in the opposite direction, beyond the next peninsula and what lay at the bottom of the channel.

  “Owen? Are you okay? You look a little seasick.” Trinity’s voice brought him back to the present.

  “Oh, my thoughts were somewhere else.” He tried to shake it off. Leave it, he told himself. Don’t think about it.

  He grabbed her luggage and handed it over the bow, piece by piece, and she set them on a broad slab of rock. Then he climbed off the
bow and moved her luggage inside her cabin.

  “Somebody’s been here,” she said, looking around.

  The fire, long cold from that night, left a mess of ash and dead embers. They’d moved the chaise lounge away from the fire, and the extra lamp they’d lit sat on the floor. “Must have been some teenagers looking for fun,” she said. “Doesn’t look like they did any real harm.”

  Hardly fun, Owen thought. And there was harm. Unspeakable harm.

  “Well, no matter.” She pushed the chaise lounge back to its original position, set the lamp on the fireplace mantel, and then suddenly grabbed Owen’s upper arm with both hands.

  “Oh, how thoughtless of me! Of course you’re not feeling well. Not until the train ride north did Sadie say anything about a distance between you two. And then, when we arrived, you two didn’t say a word to each other. Owen, you should talk with her.”

  He inhaled stuffy air. Exhaled hard. “While you get unpacked, I’ll help you open things up.” He stepped outside, undid latches, and removed the heavy wooden panels from all the windows. Inside, he opened windows wide and let a soft, warm breeze cleanse the tiny cabin. He cleaned up the fireplace, refilled the wood bin from the outdoor woodpile, and swept the cabin floor, all the while feeling as if he were making amends.

  “There,” she said. “Good enough for now. Let’s get a drink, shall we?”

  “A drink? You want to go back to Ranier?”

  “No, you silly sailor. Here. On the island. My father’s stash. Believe me, he has more than one hiding place. I’ll show you.”

  “That surprises me.”

  “That he hides booze, or that he and my mother drink it?”

  “Maybe both.”

  “Oh, they’re social drinkers. On the boat, Father keeps a bottle of top-shelf Canadian whiskey for law enforcement for whenever he goes across to Canada, and he keeps special booze on hand for the feds and police here when he’s on the island or in American waters. He’s a businessman. He wants to keep everybody happy.”