It was a good thing that he had me? Really? I cringed because he didn’t have me, exactly. We barely knew one another. But I said nothing. Instead I stared at the crutches and Jase’s leg now encased from hip to toes in what I later learned was a leg immobilizer because, with no broken bones he didn’t need a cast. And I made a decision.
I was here, I had no pressing schedule, and he needed help. I could provide that help. So I nodded agreement to everything the doctor said. “No driving, of course, wrong leg, if he’d have done that to his left leg he’d be able to drive in a couple of weeks, but not with all that damage to his right leg.”
He tut-tutted as if Jase should have chosen which leg he wrecked and then he handed him a prescription. “Pain killers if you need them, though if you’ve gone this long without them you will most likely throw the prescription away. But I suggest you fill it because they might be handy to have around in case that leg decides to act up later on.” And then to me. “Bring him back in a week and I’ll see how things are coming.”
The crutches made a big difference. Jase got to the truck under his own power and even insisted on accompanying me into the drug store to get the prescription that he’d probably not take filled and then we stopped for a pizza lunch at Jerry’s where he told the story of our miraculous journey through the winter forest and across the bog to everyone who would listen. Which was everyone.
“She got us through.” He pointed to me and they all nodded. “The woods weren’t so bad and she’s got a thing with the forest, a connection, as if they are buddies or something and the forest won’t let anything bad happen to her.
“But she also towed me on a sled across the bog and that was a whole different thing.” You could hear the collective indrawn breaths because everyone there knew the bog and so knew how dangerous winter winds could be across its open swaths. “She’s a hero.’
One elderly gent nodded agreement and said somberly, “Lots of heroes around here. Have to be to live in the north country but that doesn’t lessen what she did. I’d hate to cross that bog in winter pulling a sled.”
His companion, a somewhat younger man, possibly his son, added, “She’s a little thing, too, Amazing that she could pull a big guy like you and all the things you’d need to bring with you.”
A third person, a youngish woman, asked, “What are you going to do now? Didn’t you say her car is at the cabin and that there’s a perfectly good snowmobile somewhere in the forest?”
Everyone waited for our answer. Jase licked his lips for a moment before answering. “We haven’t thought that far yet but of course we’ll get the snowmobile. We can use another snowmobile and tow it back.” He raked his hair, leaving it spiking every which way. “As for the car, we’ll have to see if Maude has time to plow out the road to the cabin. It’s not on her winter route so it’ll likely depend on whether any more storms come this way because, if they do, she’ll be too busy to bother with one little car.”
He hunched his shoulders as he looked at me and it was only then that I realized I might be without personal transportation until spring. I closed my eyes as I thought how to get around without a car when Jase was better.
I decided that once Jase was okay to be on his own, if Maude couldn’t plow out our cabin and I somehow returned to Minneapolis I could use public transport but I’d have to get there first and Jase couldn’t drive me because he couldn’t drive and, anyway, then I’d be stranded in the city until spring and even then I’d have to ask my parents to drive me to the cabin so I could get the car and what if it wouldn’t start after all that time buried in a snowdrift?
I groaned as I contemplated all the problems inherent in a tiny car beneath a pile of snow beside a wilderness cabin on a road that wasn’t on anyone’s plow route. The entire room groaned with me because they understood the intricacies of life in the north woods in winter.
Then we finished our pizza and Jase swung jauntily to the truck on his new crutches that he was mastering as I watched and I drove back to the Center on roads that were as clear as in the summer thanks to Maude. The county had lucked out when her husband deserted her because she was very good at what she did.
Once at the Center, Jase, the man with a smile that never dimmed and a good word for everyone all the time suddenly and unexpectedly turned grouchy. I didn’t understand it and watched warily as he stared at the land line phone as if it were a snake that could bite him until finally, moaning without realizing he was doing so and that I could hear him, he picked up the receiver and riffed through a rolodex of phone numbers and began dialing.
He looked at me and mouthed, “I’ll find someone to come and help me.” I hadn’t told him of my intention to be that help and I decided to wait and see whether he could find help himself. Then I could somehow get home and get on with my life.
He shook his head in frustration as he waited for someone to pick up. “I need help at the Center and I need it soon,” he muttered as he hung up the phone, consulted his rolodex and dialed another number. “I have a group coming in a little over a week and then there will be at least two more groups this winter, way before I’m functional. More if some pending reservations are firmed up.”
My mouth dropped open. He had a business to run, I’d not thought about that, and doing so involved doing things he couldn’t do without two good legs. I was glad I’d not made my offer out loud because what did I know about running an event center?
He continued, thinking as he spoke. “I can do the inside stuff. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, and I can handle some decent fireplace chats and organize games in the great room.” He shook his head. “But outside?” He stared malevolently at his messed-up leg. “I can’t lead a group of snowmobilers. Even though we stick to groomed trails, I must be able to help if anyone has trouble and, as you can clearly see, I can’t do that with a bum leg. I could give directions to a helper but I need someone to be that helper.”
He started ticking off a list of things he couldn’t do while injured and his face took on an almost glazed look of panic. “Nor can I lead anyone on cross-country ski trips. Or do the outside work to have a picnic in the snow.”
“You have picnics in the snow?”
“Of course.” As if everyone had snow picnics. “They are wonderful. All the good food you can imagine, a roaring campfire, hot cocoa, s’mores, and no mosquitoes. They are one of the highlights of every stay, the thing guests talk about when they tell people of their winter getaway.”
Then he ignored me as, with a sigh that said he didn’t expect much, he started dialing the phone and I didn’t even ask permission to use the kitchen and prepare dinner. I just went and looked to see what I could make because I wasn’t about to endure that frown that I imagined grew as he spoke to one person after another after another.
I found some pork chops and enough things to go with them to call it a meal and wondered whether I should tell him dinner was ready or simply wait until his phone calls were done and he’d hopefully found someone to help out, after which he’d once again become his usual smiley self.
CHAPTER 15
Considering the grumpy voice in the other room, staying in the kitchen seemed the best option so I turned on the ceiling fan and waited for the smell of dinner to draw him there and eventually, about the time my stomach was rumbling so badly that I was ready to eat without him, he came. One look at his face said he’d not been successful.
“Did you find anyone?” I pretended not to know how the phone calls had turned out, feeling somewhat lost as to how to proceed because, until now, there’d been no need to be diplomatic with Jase. Until now he’d been the diplomat and I’d blurted out whatever I felt like saying.
He sank into the empty chair at the table and I scurried to get him a plate of food though he’d gotten his own before then. This action on his part must mean things were really bad and it turned out that I was right. “No luck.” He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe his lack of success. “Everyone is either busy or has g
one south for the winter.” In his voice was surprise that anyone would leave the wonderland of the north woods in winter. Then he said it again. “No one at all. I’ll have to close the Center.”
I took a deep breath and wondered if I’d hate myself later for what I was about to say. “I don’t have to be back at any particular time. I can stick around for a while.”
His eyes raised to mine. “Really? Don’t you have a job you must get back to?”
I scowled because I’d heard this refrain many times because few people believe artists can make a living with their art. “I’m an artist. Painting pictures is my job and I can and do set my own schedule.”
Something appeared in the back of his eyes. A light. A hope. But his words were carefully spaced as he slowly asked, “Don’t you have a studio somewhere where you work?”
Did I? I laughed, picturing my so-called studio. “I’m a professional artist to the extent that I don’t need a day job but –” I took a deep breath and decided to be honest. “But the reason I don’t need a second job is that I live in a tiny, cramped, one-room apartment that doubles as my studio.”
I closed my eyes and mentally counted the half-finished pictures that littered that room. “I can’t have company because there’s no place for them to sit. Or walk. Or even stand and I pretty much crawl around and over pictures and equipment to get wherever I need to be.” Cooking was a challenge.
That light – the hope -- in the back of his eyes grew as he cut his pork chop into precise, square pieces and took a bite. Precise as in matching his thoughts? His next words didn’t clarify anything as he asked, “Is your studio portable?”
“Huh?” The question was the last I’d expected and I was clueless as to his reason for asking except that he clearly had an idea and he was approaching it sidewise and slowly. Inch by inch.
“I mean, can you only paint in your apartment? Your studio? Whatever you call it?” He scratched his head and frowned because he was treading as lightly around me now as I’d been doing around him earlier, which meant that he didn’t want to mess up whatever he was up to. Which meant it was important. “I don’t know anything about artists but I’m guessing that creativity is fickle.” Another head scratch and hunched shoulders. “I guess what I’m trying to ask is whether you can only paint in your apartment or can you be creative in other places?”
My relief was so great that I laughed. “I’m the opposite of fickle. I paint wherever I happen to be. In my apartment, in the cabin, in the forest. Anywhere and everywhere.”
His sigh of relief filled the room and mingled with the aroma of pork chops and applesauce as that light – that hope -- in the back of his eyes spread until his entire face glowed. “Do you think you could paint here? At the Center?” I blinked because I was still clueless. “And maybe do a few other things between pictures?”
Oh! A glimmering of his thoughts appeared. I swallowed applesauce and changed my mindset to parallel his, wondering if later I’d wish I’d kept silent. “Please explain in a bit more detail.” I stuck my nose slightly into the air because I was scared for what I was about to commit to and didn’t want him to know.
His eyes drifted up and down my body, head to toes as if he’d never seen me before but it was done without meeting my eyes. He was trying to gauge my feelings as I’d tried to gauge his after his marathon phone session. Which was odd because we knew each other well after our short acquaintance, though I supposed that in life or death situations that was common and this was different so in a way we were strangers once again. This situation involved the making of decisions.
He lay down his fork and knife and looked me straight in the eyes. “What I’m wondering – okay, what I’m hoping – is that you’ll consider sticking around for a while. Staying at the Center until I’m back on my feet.” He gazed at his leg all neatly wrapped and sticking out one side of the table. “Literally.”
He waved a fork, dug into those small, square pieces of pork chop, staring at them as if wondering how they’d gotten cut into such tiny pieces. “There are three bedrooms on the main floor of the Center. They are for the Center owner and the manager and his family. That’s me since I’m both owner and manager and I only need one bedroom. You are now in the second bedroom and if you agree to stick around it’ll be yours indefinitely. That leaves one entire bedroom that could be converted into a studio.”
We stared at one another for a long time without speaking as I sucked in my breath and tried to wrap my mind around the fact that I’d done it. I’d agreed to stay and now, if I chose, I’d agree to help out indefinitely and bring my art things to the Center, which would be a huge thing. I asked, “Does that third bedroom have a north window?”
He stared at me as if I’d lost my mind so I continued. “North windows provide indirect light and that’s important for painting.” The one good thing my tiny apartment had was a huge north-facing window. It looked out on another apartment building several yards away, but it did face north.
He blinked. Thought. Tilted his head a bit. And smiled. “I believe it does.” He rose and grabbed his crutches. “Let’s go see.” As he reached the door leading to the bedrooms, he put one hand into a cabinet and pulled out a compass and waved it about. “Comes in handy when I’m in the woods.” Then he thumped down the hallway and I followed, wondering if I was insane and what I’d say if the bedroom did, indeed, have a northern exposure because then I’d have no way out.
I was so deep in thought that it’s amazing that I didn’t bump into him as he reached his destination and paused long enough to push open the door to a spacious room that was most likely intended as the master bedroom. It was beautiful. And large. And had a wall of windows overlooking the forest mere yards away that undoubtedly, definitely, amazingly faced north.
I didn’t need confirmation from his compass to know because I recognized the indirect light that filtered through the trees and into the room. Any artist knows that light. As I looked around, I realized that this was perfect, down to the bathroom across the hall that could be used for cleaning myself and any mess I might make and I make a big mess.
I said the first thing that came to mind, as if my decision was already made. Which, in a way, it was. “We’d have to cover the floor with something. Drop cloths or old rugs.” I flushed. “I’m kind of messy and I’d hate to stain these lovely wood floors.”
He waved a hand in the air as if stains were nothing, holding his crutches to his body as he did so, which showed how much of a crutch expert he already was. “Drop clothes. Rugs. Blankets. Whatever. It can be done. Whatever you need can and will be done, though you might have to do it yourself if it’s something I can’t manage.”
As relief flowed from every pore of his body and he realized that possibly his crisis could be handled, he added, “We can work out the details in the kitchen as we finish that lovely dinner you prepared that I’m afraid I didn’t notice.”
“It’ll need to be re-heated.”
Another wave of that arm. “Whatever.” Then worry returned, creasing his forehead. “Surely we can work out any problems. Can’t we?” And grimly, “I hope we can because frankly, Laurie, you are my last hope. If for any reason you can’t do this, then I’m going to have to cancel a whole lot of reservations and I don’t know if the business can stand the loss and that’s the honest to goodness truth.”
We returned to the kitchen silently, each thinking our own thoughts, and I warmed up the dinner I’d made and knew that the re-heated food wouldn’t be as good as when it was first cooked, but knowing that wasn’t important. The only thing that mattered was whether we could come to an agreement on my future at the Center and, as I thought about it, there were a lot of things to consider.
Like what would I be doing, exactly? If Jase could only do things inside, that seemed to mean that I’d be doing a lot of stuff outside and was I up to it? Could I do those things? What needed doing outside?
The first item on his agenda wasn’t chores, it was money. �
��How much will you charge to work for me?” I giggled because the question seemed backwards. Usually an employer tells the future employee what they’ll receive.
I thought about it. “Nothing because if you include board and room, my expenses will be less here than in Minneapolis and I’ll still get income from the pictures that I’ll paint here.” And I’d have a beautiful studio to work in.
“Are you sure?”
That light in his eyes showed that he’d not figured paying full-time help into his financial calculations so my decision was appreciated. I assured him that I meant every word. “But I need to know what will be expected from me and that I’ll have time to paint.”
I looked out the window at the piles of snow the plow had made around the parking lot. “All those outdoor things you mentioned. Maybe I’m not up to the task. There are things I don’t know how to do. Lots of things.” Things that my father had always done because he was the outdoor type while my mother cooked and I meandered through the woods and painted.
He scowled as if he’d not thought that far ahead. Then he brightened. “If you can drag a sled full of equipment that also has me on it through the wilderness for a full day, then you can do anything. I know you can.”
“I was worn out at the end of the day. So exhausted that I was out of it.”
“I remember.” He nodded somberly and let his hands drop to the table. “You were crying before we reached the Center and didn’t stop until almost daylight the next morning. I didn’t know what to do. I was terrified.” We both were silent.
“But that was different, we were in a life-threatening situation and that was your reaction to it. The thing that’s important right now is that, even though you cried, even though you were at the end of your rope, even though you thought you couldn’t do it, you kept going. You kept walking. You did it. You got us here.”
The Snow Queen Page 9