Her Last Letter

by Nancy C. Johnson

“Snowmobile. You take three guys, one drives and carries another guy uphill. You take turns.”

  “You’ve done that?”

  “Sure, but I’d rather climb. You can ski a lot of powder if you use a snowmobile, and I know where the powder just hangs around for days waiting for tracks.”

  “I don’t know. I’m a decent skier. But I’m not sure I’d enjoy it that much.”

  “Oh, you should go,” said Linda. “You’d love it. I’ve gone out with him … not on a snowmobile. I like to use my telemark skis and skins. Gwyn does it.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but Trevor just learned to ski a few years ago. He hasn’t had a chance to ski much powder-”

  “Now wait a minute,” Trevor said. “I could handle it, no problem. I’m just not sure it’s something I want to try. But hey, I might go out there with you, at least once I do a little downhill skiing and get the legs in shape.”

  Wolfgang smiled widely. “Then we’ll do it.”

  The conversation turned to talk of the good old days. Linda spoke of how the family used to go sledding when we were kids and the fun we’d have. “Gwyn would scare me half to death. She’d get me on that sled and we’d fly down so fast that when I finally tumbled off I flipped over at least three times. She’d never let me go in front and steer.”

  “You didn’t want to go in front and steer,” I said.

  “Well, you were the oldest. And the daredevil. Gwyn’s quite the athlete.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You’re a lot better than okay,” she said.

  “Yes, she is,” said Trevor. “She’s a much better skier than I am. No contest.”

  “Well, then,” said Wolfgang, “maybe you should join us too.” He motioned at me with his coffee cup. “In the backcountry.”

  Linda laughed. “Wolfgang, she goes out in the backcountry all the time in the winter, and she hikes in the summer. She hikes all over the place taking her pictures. She hikes, she skis, and she can handle a snowmobile better than most guys. You don’t know Gwyn.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Well, I guess I don’t.”

  “Shows how much you listen when I talk.”

  “So, sounds like the whole family was into sports,” Wolfgang said.

  “Not exactly,” said Linda. “Dad liked to snowshoe sometimes, when he wasn’t working, and that wasn’t much. Mom, she mainly stayed in the house. She liked to cook and do her embroidery. She could do sports, but she wasn’t that interested, I guess.”

  “She liked to cross-country ski sometimes,” I said. “She’d take me out.”

  “Yes, but I think only because she knew you liked it,” said Linda, “and you didn’t go far.”

  Linda put her hands on the table and pushed herself up. “More coffee anyone? Renard’s gone home, so we’re on our own. How about more dessert?”

  Trevor patted his stomach. “No can do.”

  I watched Linda leave the room, then turned toward Wolfgang. “So, where is your family now?”

  “What’s left of them are in Washington, Washington state, that is. My parents are gone, died a long time ago.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “They were killed … in an accident.”

  “An accident?” I asked.

  “They were buried in an avalanche in British Columbia. Bodies didn’t turn up until spring.”

  “My God,” said Trevor, sitting up straighter.

  Wolfgang shrugged. “I was three years old. I barely remember them.”

  “So who raised you?” I asked as Linda reentered with the coffeepot and a tray of desserts.

  “An uncle,” he said. “I hear from him from time to time. Still lives in Washington, same house, same everything.”

  Linda began pouring coffee, squinting her eyes and frowning at me. “Enough of this depressing conversation,” she said. “It’s snowing outside.” She dipped her head toward the dining room window.

  “Well, Aspen is open,” said Trevor. “I checked. And Vail too, not as much snow though. Did I tell you Gwyn and I bought new skis?”

  “What kind?” asked Wolfgang.

  Linda motioned for me to follow her back to the kitchen, then glanced around the corner once we’d reached it. “What were you doing out there? Don’t ask Wolfgang a bunch of questions about his past.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because when you do it, it sounds like you’re grilling him for information. And don’t think he doesn’t notice.”

  “I was just asking.”

  “Well, don’t. We’ll know what we need to know soon enough. Here, take this.” She handed me clean forks and napkins and pushed me toward the dining room.

  “Now wait just a minute,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to Hawaii? You could have told me upstairs.”

  “There wasn’t time. And I only found out this morning.”

  “And you knew I wouldn’t like it. And you’re right, I don’t.”

  “Well, I like it.”

  “What are you thinking, Linda? It’s an incredibly bad idea. What if something happens? You’ll be so far away.”

  “What difference does that make? Something could happen here too. Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine. Come on, we can’t stay in here. It will look suspicious. And, please, don’t ask any more questions.”

  Later on, Linda tried to convince the guys to watch a special remake of A Christmas Carol, but Wolfgang just laughed and turned on the football game. Linda and I made popcorn. I tried to enjoy the game, but couldn’t concentrate on any of it, including the halftime show, my usual favorite. Trevor kept glancing over at me and it made me uncomfortable. I tried to smile and pretend to be enjoying myself, but I had the feeling I wasn’t very convincing.

  By the time we drove home, it was dark out, and snowing harder. We sat in silence watching the snowflakes whip across the road in the glare of the headlights. Suddenly, Trevor reached across for my hand. I almost pulled it back, but managed to stop myself.

  “What’s the matter, Gwyn?” He squeezed my fingers gently.

  “Nothing. I’m just tired.”

  “Of me?”

  I swung my head to face him. “No. No. Why would you say that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you never look at me. Maybe because you’re stiff as a board when I touch you. I catch you looking at me like you hate me. Things like that.”

  “No. I told you. I’m just tired.”

  “So, it’s not me? Because if it is, I’d really like to know. I can’t take this much longer.”

  I looked away.

  “Gwyn, if it really isn’t me that’s upsetting you, maybe you should see that woman again, that therapist. Maybe you really should.”

  “I have started seeing her again.”

  “Is this about your sister? Is that what it is, the holidays, and you’re thinking about her?”

  “I guess so.”

  His shoulders slumped and I could almost see the tension drain from his body. “You should have told me. You can’t keep these things from me. We’re a couple. We need to share what’s bothering each other. We can’t allow problems to grow, not if our marriage is going to work.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, and I still didn’t trust him, so I didn’t say anything.

  “I want our marriage to work,” he said. “I want you to tell me when things I do bother you, even things that have nothing to do with me. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, I can do that.”

  “Good. I feel better.”

  As we continued toward home, I thought back to the night Kelly died. Trevor told the police he’d been working alone in his office that evening, that he’d returned home around nine. Actually, it had been a lot later, more like eleven. I’d fallen asleep, and when I woke up, Trevor was just hanging up his coat. I’d never asked him why he lied. But I knew he hadn’t forgotten the time.

  The following day I drove to the cemetery. I didn’t ask Linda if she wanted to join me, pr
obably she wouldn’t anyway, because then she might have to talk about Kelly. And that, it seemed, was something Linda never wanted to do.

  A wreath lay on each of the family graves, delivered yesterday and on each major holiday, an arrangement Linda and I had made in case one or both of us were out of town. But I’d brought my own flowers today, a mix of tinted orchids and carnations, and placed a spray on all three graves. The markers had been recently cleared, though a dusting of snow had already begun to obstruct the names. I bent down and wiped the snow away with a gloved hand, starting with my mother.

  She’d died one winter morning while Linda and I were visiting friends in the neighborhood. Only Kelly was at home. It appeared Mom had lain down for a nap, something she rarely did, and never woke up. Kelly, nine years old at the time, found her and phoned us. “I can’t wake Mom up,” she’d cried. “I shook her and shook her.”

  They determined that our mother had died of an aneurysm, a blood vessel popped in her brain. No reason given … these things just happen.

  I knelt near her marker and read the inscription.

  Ruth Ann Everett. Beloved wife and mother. Receive her into heaven, oh Lord …

  My mother’s friends and relatives had called her Ruthie. In the pictures I’d seen of her as a child, she’d appeared quite happy, always smiling, though I didn’t remember too much of that. To me, she’d seemed subdued and resigned. I could only guess that she’d been lonely, not for us kids, but for my father who was almost never around. When he was, he holed up in his little room, doing his books or talking on the phone … in the house, but not really at home.

  My father, Samuel Titus Everett, lay in the grave beside my mother. And it occurred to me, that at least in death, my father was forced to stay near my mother, like it or not. But he had been a good man, a stable provider, and he’d stop what he was doing to listen to his children, though we couldn’t hang out for long before he’d tell us to scoot. He’d amassed a fortune virtually behind our backs, though my mother must have known. We owned the sporting goods store in town, Titus Sports Authority, and there was a catalogue that came out each month, and frequent mention of “the plant,” though none of us girls had ever been there. We did help out often in the store on vacations and holidays to earn our spending money, but we had no idea of the wealth he’d accumulated until he died.

  It was obvious he wanted it that way. Our home was modest. We lived modestly. I could only wonder why he’d chosen to live so simply, though in the will, he’d given a clue. “And to my girls I bequeath all my earthly belongings, and urge them to remember that money makes no guarantee of happiness, but instead can usher in a world of woe. Choose wisely your path, and those you keep close to you now. Forgive me the burden I have placed on you.”

  He’d sold off the store after the first heart attack, and soon after liquidated the rest, leaving everything in order, as was his way. He died of a second, massive attack, no doubt due to a lifetime of stress, or perhaps, I liked to think, he’d missed our mother more than he’d ever cared to show.

  Kelly’s grave was next to my father’s. I stared at it the longest. My dearest baby sister. How would I live my life without her? I couldn’t go a day without thinking about her, without wishing she were still here.

  She was born Kelly Alan Everett. The middle name belonged to our paternal grandfather, since Kelly was the hoped-for boy that never materialized. She was a wild little child, tearing through the house, bouncing off the walls, always smiling, especially at me. I carried her around like a favorite doll when she would let me, helped give her baths, played hide and seek, and read her stories. I thought of myself as Kelly’s second mother. She was our baby, and we spoiled her accordingly. I, especially, hated to tell her no.

  I looked up from her grave. A frigid wind had picked up, blowing snow around my ankles. I watched as a plastic bag took flight across the cemetery, skipping over and over. I reached down one last time to adjust the flowers, then pulling my coat close, headed back to the Jeep.

  Chapter 8

  A week and a half later on a Saturday, Trevor left for Denver to “motivate the troops,” as he’d put it. He would be away for the weekend, possibly longer depending on how everything worked out. He’d left in a good mood, mainly because I’d fooled him, convinced him he was not the reason for my recent coldness.

  Every few days I talked to Linda with the excuse of asking about her health, which I was, of course, concerned about, but more concerned to hear what was happening with the background check.

  “Nothing yet,” Linda would say. “Give it time, Gwyn.”

  I thought about hiring my own investigator, but didn’t know of a good one, and if I hired a private detective, I wanted them to be very good. Other than looking through the phone book, I didn’t know of a way to find a reputable one. For now, I’d try it Linda’s way.

  She assured me that “Mr. I Spy”-not his real name, but Linda’s attempt to be covert about the situation-was a thorough and well-respected investigator. I was glad to hear that, but more concerned that the guy be fast.

  I was certain Trevor was meeting the woman, whoever she was, in Denver-or somewhere-and the thought made my insides churn. After we’d kissed good-bye this morning, I’d curled up, fetal position, on the couch and stared at nothing for hours. It wasn’t good. I could feel myself wanting to return to the mindless vegetative state I’d experienced following Kelly’s death.

  Finally, I willed myself off the couch and managed to get myself moving. I would visit the old house … have a word with Kelly.

  A layer of new snow covered the front porch, but instead of the smooth unblemished coating I’d expected to see, the snow was marked with footsteps. It didn’t alarm me. I’d seen this sort of thing before. Solicitors who didn’t know the house was empty probably had come by. I studied the pattern of footsteps, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Only the front walk and porch were marked. The snow surrounding the rest of the house appeared intact.

  I inserted the key in the lock, and stepped inside.

  It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t freezing either. The thermostat was set at sixty degrees to protect the plumbing, which I’d left in working order for the times I stopped by. I didn’t see any signs of squirrels or other visitors; the screening over the chimney had taken care of that, and the timer was still plugged in.

  I walked farther inside and glanced at the mantel over the fireplace. I’d replaced the broken glass in Kelly’s frame, and now her picture was back where it belonged, at the edge of the mantel with the rest of the family photographs.

  I strolled to the kitchen and turned on the cold water tap. The pipes chugged with stale air for a moment, then released a burst of water. I let the faucet run for a while-not that I needed water for anything-but it seemed like a good idea. I turned on the hot water tap, and after a minute or so, it flowed with the beginnings of warm water. “There you go, Kelly,” I said, “just in case you want to take a bath.”

  I knew it might sound crazy to be talking out loud in an empty house to my dead sister, but as long as I knew I wasn’t crazy and no one could hear me, who cared?

  I opened the back door off the kitchen and looked out to the detached one car garage. I thought about going out there, but decided maybe not, or else maybe I’d check it out when I was done roaming the house.

  I stepped into my dad’s little room and stood looking at his desk, then walked over to the swivel chair and sat down. The rolling wheels beneath it creaked and slid backwards slightly, then stopped. I rolled myself up to the desk and looked at the room from my father’s perspective.

  Screwing my face into the frown I’d often seen him wear, I mimicked his low growl. “Quiet down, you girls. I’m trying to work. You’re making way too much noise and I’ve got a lot of work to do.

  “Right, Dad,” I answered back at him, “your work should have included your family, don’t you think?”

  I stood up from the desk and walked to the window that l
ooked out over the backyard. No more swing set. That had rusted and collapsed years ago. I remembered digging holes with kitchen spoons back there in the yard. Kelly and I were going to dig a hole to China, save on airfare.

  I left my dad’s room and walked to the stairs leading to the second floor bedrooms.

  In a way, it was good that Linda didn’t come by the house too much, because she’d be upset to see the small change I’d recently made. It wasn’t a big thing, so there really was no reason for her to care, but I knew she would. I turned right at the top of the stairs and entered our old bedroom, the one Kelly had converted to her own after Dad passed away.

  I liked the change. It looked right. Two bunk beds sat on opposite sides of the small room, almost exactly like the ones that used to be there. It wasn’t as if I’d gone looking for them, but the room was empty, and the secondhand store didn’t want much for the beds, and if a family did end up renting or buying the house, the kids would have a place to sleep.

  I hung on the doorframe for a while, then inspected our parents’ bedroom, and finally, the small bath. I pulled aside the shower curtain and looked into the tub, and was disgusted to see dead bugs upended there. I unrolled a length of toilet paper to scoop them up, deposited them into the wastebasket, then removed the plastic liner from the basket and replaced it with a new one.

  Washing my hands with soap, I looked at my reflection in the mirror over the sink and thought that I looked tired. Trevor wouldn’t be home tonight. The house would be empty. I’d get to eat dinner alone, or I could go over to the Wild River and see Caroline, have dinner there. But I didn’t feel like talking to Caroline just now, and she would be busy anyway on a Saturday night.

  I walked back downstairs and after one last look around the house, including a peek in the basement, headed out the front door. I glanced over to the garage, but didn’t feel like going out there anymore. All I’d need would be to find a dead mouse or something else equally disgusting to cap off my day.

  What I really needed was to do something fun, something I wouldn’t do if Trevor were home.

  It was three o’clock in the afternoon, still early, and I had an idea. First I’d go home and pack a small bag with a change of clothes and my bathing suit, and then I’d go over to the hot springs pool and soak in the thermal waters. If that didn’t make me feel better, nothing would. And the water had the power to heal, I was sure of that, maybe not psychological wounds, but certainly it could help.