White Horse Point

by Jean Andrews

  Ramona was right. After Ben, I couldn’t write. I was pissed at myself for ever having been with him in the first place and putting up with his needling comments about me. Though I’d told myself I could ignore what he said, it had gotten into my psyche and made me numb. I couldn’t write numb.

  Income from the divorce was the one benefit of my having been married. We split everything down the middle because he didn’t want an argument—that was after we’d argued for three months. He didn’t want anyone to know why I was divorcing him—abusive wasn’t the descriptor he wanted to be tagged with. He had that perfect, beneficent, kind-hearted image to preserve for his coworkers and friends. God only knew what he said about me after I left, but it couldn’t have been much worse than what he said to me while we were together.

  I looked in the full-length mirror. I was five foot eight, and my blond hair was intentionally Emma Thompson—short on the sides, with the high swoosh falling over my right eye.

  I’m tall and big boned. How would that particular combination age? Not well. Ask a dinosaur.

  My green eyes were fired up and jumped out at me, probably because my skin was pale and in need of something…ah, yes, facial cream. I opened a jar at random and applied the thick, white formula. My cheekbones were prominent and my jawline strong, but my smile was my most winning attribute. Men always came across the room to chat—if I smiled at them—which of late I tried not to do.

  I examined the other jars stacked on my cramped bathroom counter, each touting a different benefit—lifts and holds, moisturizes and rejuvenates, erases lines and dark spots. Then why did women over sixty look like exhausted leopards? Relax. You’re not there yet. You’re a youthful forty-seven.

  “I think I need rejuvenating,” I said out loud, and tossed that particular jar into my cosmetic kit. Maybe I’ll lie on the dock and get a tan. Or maybe not. I checked my figure in the full-length mirror. It actually wasn’t bad. However, I did long for bathing suits that covered me from wrist to ankle; they were charming. I didn’t even own a bathing suit. I was firm but not buffed. Everyone in the damned city was toned, or muscled, and working out in the rooftop spa at four thirty a.m. What’s the point of exercising if, when you quit for a week, you go back to what you were? I’m strong but soft. I was trying to make myself feel better. Based on the men I’d known, the confident ones, as Ramona would say, soft did seem to draw a crowd. Screw it. I’ll buy a bathing suit up there if I decide to go in the lake.

  * * *

  I was up at dawn, put on a pair of trim gray slacks, a tailored white shirt tucked in with a gray designer belt, and gray mesh loafers, then grabbed a cab and headed for LaGuardia. In line at the airport, the older, well-coiffed man ahead of me was giving his wife the third degree about what she’d packed for him. He was dressed in logo-festooned golf attire, minus the cleats. His head was on a swivel, scouting the terminal and pausing when he saw a pretty girl while continuing the conversation with his wife. “I told you not to forget that. How hard is that to remember?” He reminded me of Ben—nice looking, but not nice. She should tell him to stick his putter up his ass.

  Ben could be funny, I mused, which is what attracted me to him, but I didn’t love him. And once we stopped partying and sobered up, it became apparent he was very bad in bed. We stopped having sex almost immediately. I wanted something more but made no attempt to get it, a fact I’d re-examined incessantly over the last four years. Was I in a trance, under his spell, lazy and not giving a damn, or what? I just hung in and put up with it.

  What irony! The times when things were “okay” in our relationship seemed to be a reason to put up with the times that were horrible. Okay wasn’t supposed to be the condition of marriage. Okay was your condition in the ER: “He’s lost his left leg, but he’s going to be okay.”

  I had two lives—the self-assured author doing interviews and book signings; and the wife, in name only, who’d stopped focusing on what she wanted and just learned to want less. My decade with Ben had been a total waste of time…pointless! Wind yourself up, tear yourself down. Let up!

  I didn’t realize I was glowering at the man in front of me, who shot me a “what’s up with you, lady?” look. I quickly changed my expression, almost smiling at him, then caught myself in time to keep from acquiescing. I should be able to glower if I want to.

  After an hour of waiting, we trekked down the jetway and boarded. I pushed my duffel into the overhead bin above my seat and buckled myself in, my heart rate increasing dramatically, my fear level rising. It didn’t matter if the weather was perfection, or if the pilot was Sully Sullenberger, or if John the Baptist materialized to assure me I’d have an equal number of takeoffs and landings. I didn’t want to be trapped in a silver tube 30,000 feet above the ground with no control over what might happen. Flying meant I trusted that the guy who tightened the screws on the engine wasn’t on meth, and the guy who loaded the cargo wasn’t an Al Qaeda sympathizer. I didn’t trust. I didn’t want to feel that way, but I did.

  A dark-haired woman in her early fifties sat down next to me in the aisle seat. She was wearing jodhpurs and shiny paddock boots, looking like something out of a European riding journal. Strange attire for a plane flight. Where was she going that required she arrive ready to ride?

  “Angelique,” she introduced herself, and I thought I knew her from somewhere—maybe a literary conference.

  “Taylor James,” I said.

  “You look rather dashing.” Her eyes danced over me.

  “I was going to say the same of you.” I smiled.

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Synaptic delay,” I said, amused that she seemed to speak unedited.

  “Going to the Northwoods?” Her voice was silky.

  “I guess so.”

  “You don’t sound very excited about it.”

  “I don’t seem to get excited much lately. Actually, I do get excited, just not happily excited.” I smiled at her again. She was lovely.

  “You have important work to do there.”

  “That’s what my publicist says,” and I laughed. “But I’ve lost the passion.”

  “You can’t lose what you never had,” she said.

  How presumptuous! Why the hell do people think they have the right to analyze me? I was about to cut the conversation short when she gave a cosmic shrug. “Well, the Northwoods will change all that.”

  “All what?”

  “Your passion. You’ll find passion you never knew existed.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve been there.” She patted me on the knee in a familiar fashion and gave me a wicked grin. “Allow me to be excited on your behalf.”

  The stewardess interrupted to ask me what I’d like to drink as the woman slid out of her seat and headed for the bathroom. She was tall and glamorous and a bit 1970s. “This is going to be a very nice flight,” she said absently over her shoulder.

  She didn’t return, and another passenger took her seat. I told the stewardess that I thought a woman, the one in jodhpurs, was sitting there. The stewardess seemed perplexed, saying she hadn’t seen anyone. I walked the aisle front to back before we were told to take our seats and fasten our seatbelts. I didn’t see anyone either.

  Well, that’s the damndest thing, I said to myself, then fell into a deep sleep.

  I was surprised when the sound of the wheels touching down woke me up. I never slept on a plane. Never.

  Chapter Two

  Minneapolis was the city I always thought New York would be if she were an over-sexed teenager—energetic, beautiful, and accepting, with great orchestras, wonderful art, think-tank universities, high-minded politics, and liberal leanings. Aunt Alice always said she liked Minnesotans because they didn’t meddle in your bedroom, your politics, or your mental state, but you paid the price in winters so brutal they’d remove your first three layers of skin.

  A Chevy SUV was the rental company’s only four-wheel-drive vehicle, so I took it, eager to start my
five-hour drive due north. Living in the land of Lyfts and limos, I hadn’t driven in a while, so it was liberating to be behind the wheel.

  The roads were winding and well cared for, lined with gargantuan pine trees that let the flickering sunlight splatter intermittently onto the forest floor. Beaver dams protruded above the surface of big clear ponds, and the state lived up to its slogan, “Land of 10,000 Lakes”—big lakes, small lakes, clean and crystal-clear lakes that came right up to the edge of the road and threatened to spill over. Little tackle shops and beer joints sprang up—their tiny gravel parking spots the only dry space between the beer bars and the whitecaps.

  Driving closer and closer to the Canadian border, I was in awe of the sheer size of nearly everything and unnerved by how close the lakes were to the road. I wanted to reach my destination before dark to avoid driving into one.

  Finally I spotted the sign up ahead proclaiming MUSKIE MINNESOTA, THE MUSKIE CAPITAL OF THE WORLD, POPULATION 989. I drove through town, past the drugstore and coffee shop on one side and the trading post and hardware store on the other, and parked in front of Muskie Market to gather a few groceries .

  The moment I entered the store, the woman behind the grocery counter looked me over with a wide grin. “Alice Armand’s niece, right? Marney said you were comin’. Said you haven’t been here since you were a little kid, back before your aunt died.” I said that was true. “I’m Helen Thorston. We own the store.”

  She was a big, strong, sensible-looking woman. Sensible being code for no makeup. She extended a hand connected to an arm as large as an oak limb. My hand disappeared in hers as we shook. She has to be gay. Not a politically correct thought, but truthfully, how many straight women did I know who could crush my hand like a walnut?

  Then Thor Thorston came around the corner in his grocer’s apron, blood-stained and looking like he’d either been cutting beef or leading a Viking raid.

  He was a foot taller than Helen and a foot wider, with unruly red curls and a dense red beard. His overly large white teeth protruded from beneath his bushy red mustache whenever he spoke. By his side, Helen no longer looked like she might be gay, but more like the two of them might be Nordic giants…or a Nordic giant and a giant Nordic beaver.

  “Hi. I’m Thor,” he boomed. “You’re staying in Ramona’s cabin. You know that’s going to be right up here on 116 and east about fifteen miles. You’ll see the sign. Her cabin is number one, the reddish cabin, and the mailbox has her name on it. She’s got the lights and phone working, but you get no cell-phone reception up there. You have a key, ya?” he asked in that decidedly Norwegian lilt, and I nodded. “You need something, you shout real loud,” he commanded, and disappeared into the back of the store.

  I grinned, contemplating that with poor phone service, I probably would have to stand in the yard and “shout real loud.”

  Two woven, wood-slat baskets sat beside the counter, and I picked up one and began to gather enough items to create breakfast, and maybe lunch, if I didn’t mind a peanut-butter sandwich.

  The store had three short rows of mostly canned items, a freezer on the north wall, a short meat case in the back, the checkout counter up front, and overhead faded tin ceiling tiles bearing images of apples and grapes, an homage to the fruits and vegetables virtually nonexistent in the store.

  On the counter, I spotted a box of raspberries someone had just picked and brought in that morning, and two bananas that were so old they could have sung a few bars of “Day-O.” I put them in my basket while a young redheaded boy, who looked like son-of-Thor, wrapped up a pound of hamburger for me. I laid everything on the counter for Helen to ring up.

  “Staying long?” she asked.

  “For the rest of the summer,” I said, wondering why I’d made this spontaneous commitment to a total stranger.

  “Do you know anyone out on the lake?” Helen beamed at me, seeming just happy to be alive.

  “I only know I’m to meet Marney.”

  “Oh, for sure. She’ll introduce you to everybody, you betcha,” she said, rolling out the Minnesota colloquialisms, and that made me smile. Helen’s enthusiasm seemed to imply that “knowing Marney” was the highest-level connection one could have in this part of the world. “Lot of tourists this time of year, so it’s a good chance to meet new people.”

  “Everybody will be new to me,” I said, and gathered up my sacked groceries. She held out a bag of peanuts. “On me. For the chipmunks. And here’s a pop for the road.” She handed me a Coke.

  I smiled again and thanked her, thinking I was a lot more smiley than usual.

  As I crawled up into the SUV, it dawned on me that not one of the businesses in town was owned by a chain or corporation, but simply by a family who ran it any way they chose. People up here seemed to feel fresh air and freedom were worth the risk of a tighter income.

  * * *

  Driving toward the cabin, I noticed the countryside turned to narrow roads and thicker underbrush, the lakes still visible a few hundred yards off in the distance. Nonetheless I could smell the sweet, fresh water and the pine even from the road. Occasionally I’d see a curved brick dome sticking up from the ground, the top of an ancient icehouse, where elderly residents still preferred to store their ice and potatoes and meat—anything that needed to be kept cold and used throughout the summer.

  In fifteen miles, I spotted a black mailbox, adjacent to three other mailboxes, on the dirt road. It was labeled #1 RYDER, Ramona’s last name. I drove another two hundred yards following the barn-paint arrows that pointed visitors toward the cabin, pulled in, and parked about twenty yards from the door, which was as close as I could get. Long logs had been nailed to four tall stumps, to form two rustic hitching posts, keeping cars off the grassy lawn with its massive trees. I drew in a deep breath and felt my blood pressure drop. The view, even from the parking area, was spectacular, the lake water sparkling and dancing in the sun.

  Alongside my pine-needle parking spot was an old fish-cleaning stand, where fishermen used to bring their catch straight up from the lake, clean it, and cook it all within an hour. As a child, I remembered how good the fish tasted, but nowadays I couldn’t bear the idea of gasping fish being fileted. Empathy coming with age.

  The cabin, made of reddish-brown logs, sat on a plateau, and the land sloped down on the far side into the lake. A boat dock stretched a hundred feet off the shore, and on the water’s edge, an old red pump house probably still held fishing rods, inner tubes, and the pump that brought water up from the lake into the cabin.

  The sound of the water and the wind through the pines captured me immediately. Small waves slapped against the shore, and pine needles shook in the lake breeze as I got out of the SUV and walked across the lawn, then up the back steps, and used the old skeleton key to enter. Locks up here were more polite than policing and seemed to say, “Could you give me a minute?” rather than “Keep out.”

  Opening the cabin door, I stepped into the tiny, old kitchen with linoleum floors, an ancient gas stove, and a battered cast-iron sink, and felt a wave of emotion. My mother and Aunt Alice used to stand here and cook and gossip when their visits overlapped. The cabin was like that—my parents would spend a week at the lake, and then they’d leave, and Aunt Alice and Uncle Jake would have the cabin to themselves for the rest of the summer. Once my parents let me stay behind, which was the only time I got to spend all summer with Aunt Alice. She was kind and funny and unafraid, and prone to locking people in the outhouse if they said something about her she didn’t like. After Aunt Alice kept a man barricaded inside for four hours, installation of indoor plumbing became a priority for Uncle Jake.

  One door off the kitchen led to an enclosed wraparound porch with a long row of picture windows that overlooked the lake, while a second one opened to a living room where wooden rockers, which looked like they were made of tree limbs with the bark still on them, faced the floor-to-ceiling, lake-stone fireplace.

  On the kitchen wall beside the back door, Ramon
a had posted a laminated note that had turned brown and had smudgy fingerprints on it. Nonetheless the instructions were clear.

  1) Do not leave any food outside. It attracts raccoons and bears.

  2) All trash goes to the dump on the back side of Hammertoe Lake, or it will attract bears.

  3) If anything breaks, call Marney Meadows in the white cabin—phone number is by the phone. Your cell phone may not work here. You’re welcome.

  There seemed to be a lot of warnings about bears.

  I unloaded the groceries, then took my luggage to the large bedroom off the porch that overlooked the lake. The bed was high off the ground, soft and comfortable. On the foot of the bed, a heavy Pendleton blanket with orange, yellow, and brown stripes supported a puffy old handmade quilt with horses featured in almost every carefully sewn square. Obviously blanket choice, not thermostat, controlled the temperature.

  The bed faced the lake, and the breeze through the two large bedroom windows caressed my entire body and made me think that nature still had the upper hand on happiness. If I wasn’t going to have true love in this lifetime, then I at least deserved fame and fortune. And I’ll love nature, I thought, stretching my arms wide and welcoming the wind into my bedroom.

  I wandered back into the living room, where a modern version of an old potbellied stove gave off a gas glow. I didn’t adjust the dial, being unfamiliar with any heat that wasn’t piped in for a high-rise.

  Inside an old writing desk, I found some 1970s postcards. One showed a picture of a local juke joint not too far from the cabin, a familiar slogan above the picture: WHEN YOU’RE OUT OF SCHLITZ, YOU’RE OUT OF BEER! The photo was faded, but I could still read the neon sign that said Jensen’s. I turned it over, and someone had scrawled, “Life was complex until one day I found the point.” The L in life had a distinctive flourish, and the stamp on the postcard had never been postmarked.

  Who wrote it, and didn’t send it? I wondered. And what did the writer mean by, “until one day I found the point?” I propped it up on the desk and decided to go down the road and check out Jensen’s.