With the lights off the sound of the rain seemed to increase, pelting the undersized windows with a renewed fury—a reminder of what I had escaped. This jailbreak then had gone all right. I had a place to sleep, and even a place to eat with credit coming for three more meals. If I could now find some way to earn money and keep myself busy, I might survive another day...or longer.
I was almost asleep when I heard a creaking sound and then that sure smell of winter, the bone-dry funk that furnaces hoard all summer long only to let loose on that first cold night. In New England it's as indicative of seasonal change as any array of pumpkins, any pot of mums, or any Friday night pep rally. I removed two of the weightier blankets and felt my lungs expanding enough to breathe normally. Just in time, too—I was beginning to feel like Giles Corey in The Crucible—the old guy whom the townspeople accuse of witchcraft but who, when his persecutors pile stones on him to crush him to death, looks at them defiantly and says "more weight!" Whenever my classes studied that play, I liked to read his part. First off, nobody else wanted to play some weird old coot; second, and more important, I had the line memorized.
Natalie used to get on my case because I was always doing that—quoting from some novel or play whenever the thought occurred to me. She claimed that I relied on books too much, that our lives were new and hadn't been written about yet. I liked the thought, but she's wrong: everything actually has been written about. I still quote from literature when I feel like it, and she escaped my tedious references by rediscovering Don who probably never bores her with lines from long-forgotten poems—unless he took up reading in the asylum.
I think I was just dozing off when the room went quiet—no rain, no wind, no radiator. For no particular reason I wanted to see the town without rain obscuring it, so I braved the cold floor and looked out the small window. A few lights on in a few buildings, a pickup heading towards that kiosk, and a streetlamp flickering through a now-fuzzy halo. The rain hadn't stopped; it had merely turned to snow. Mrs. O'Leary had been right…and Brenda would not be back to retrieve me for a good long time.
Chapter 7
Walter Trucks had a ready explanation for the previous night's dusting of snow.
"Around here winter comes all of a sudden, then it leaves real slow."
Maybe explanation isn't the right word, but he seemed pretty blasé about it, dismissing the inch or so accumulation as not worth noting.
"Of course now if you want to leave town," he said, "you have to go west. When the plows get onto Beartooth and knock down the last of the drifts, Brenda'll start driving her route again."
He looked at his watch. "That'll be in May. How 'bout some eggs?"
In his red plaid flannel bathrobe, he looked a little less emaciated than he had the previous evening, but its length, or lack thereof, accented a pair of stalk-like ankles that exacerbated that ungainly appearance—Lincolnesque, I suppose, especially in some more subtle areas: the hollow cheekbones, the skinny fingers, everything elongated and skeletal. But the facial hair that might have completed the picture was absent.
I took a pass on the eggs. I had never been told to watch my cholesterol, but I didn't feel very optimistic about the health benefits of an all-egg diet. I remembered what Mrs. O'Leary had said about Walter's not having mastered the side dishes, but I risked it.
"Just toast."
"Fine, but you're paying for eggs."
He poured me a coffee, then plunked a sixty-four-ounce jar of some generic grape jelly and a small rubber paddle on a dish towel turned placemat.
"I buy big," he said, unscrewing the lid. "How did those shoes work out?"
"They were fine, just sort of old looking, and a little small."
"I guess beggars can be choosers," he said, then filled his own mug—the wine mug I think. He pointed to a spot near the door.
"Your running shoes are dry. You're in business."
"Not with the snow. Can I get some boots around here?"
"Man, if there's anything you can get in Sage, it's boots."
"From you?"
He looked crestfallen. "I don't do boots. The lodge has 'em. Any kind, any size, any price. They got a pair in a glass case for $10,000. Interested?"
"If they come with a car I'll consider it. Are they open this early in the season?"
"It's a hunting lodge, too," Walter said. "Open all year. Hikers, backpackers, the lot. So you got Mrs. O'Leary to rent you the room?"
I nodded.
"She must have taken a liking to you."
"I lucked out. We like the same music."
"That symphony stuff?"
"Bruckner. Ever hear of him?"
"More times than I wanted to. She tried to get me interested—I couldn't do it. I mean if you listen to Beethoven at all, the difference is…I don't know…I can't appreciate all that flowery religious bullshit."
"Gee, Walter, say what you really mean."
"You asked. Anyway I've told her the same thing to her face. 'Course I'm not the one who needs a place to stay."
"I am. Next thing I knew I was hauling cartons from room to room."
Walter smiled. "We've all done that."
"Moved cartons?"
"From her previous life. Some of it belongs to her husband. She tell you that?"
"She mentioned he was gone. I guess after all this time, maybe it bothers her a little less?"
"Incredible amount of crap she has stashed away," he said. It seemed like an odd non-answer to a question I guess I hadn't asked. He didn't wait for my next one.
"Bet she was out of the house before you woke up."
"You're right. Where'd she leave so early?"
"Everyone's gotta be someplace."
Another non-answer, though this time I was pretty sure I'd asked a question. Behind his evasiveness there was some truth. At 7:00 I had taken that much-needed shower (yes, hot water on the H side where it belonged) then found a note taped to the front door. There's coffee. Pull the plug when you leave. In a spasm of unbridled hope, I looked around for a morning newspaper to read. I even peeked outside, but if there was one available, it was not being delivered to anyone's door.
"We get a weekly from Gardiner or Jackson," Walter said. "Nobody reads it—everything's on the Internet. The written word is disappearing."
"Someone still has to write it."
"Oh, I forgot," he said, feigning astonishment, "you're an English teacher—gotta protect your interests. Your running shoes, by the way. They're good ones."
"Were good ones, I guess. I don't think sloshing around last night helped them."
"They're fine. Midsole should still be good. Bet you paid over a hundred bucks for them. You must really be a runner."
"Used to be. I sort of gave it up."
"Injury, huh?"
"More or less. I just wanted to try something else."
"Taking a bus to a place like Sage—now that's something else. I don't want to see what's next on your list."
Of course I had no list. I had enjoyed running, but the break-up with Natalie took away my desire, took it away in gradual and almost indiscernible phases until, one day,