The roads hadn’t been cleared of snow. It was still falling. The blizzard had dropped several feet of the white stuff, blanketing the pine boughs and forming snowbanks that lined either side of the road. Some intrepid souls had made the journey already; there were ruts that the truck’s tires gravitated into as if magnetized. The truck was warm, its’ heater blasting her feet and making her woolen socks feel unnecessary. She kept them on anyway but removed her Sorels. She loved these night trips to the cabin in winter. Chief’s truck was the envy of his workmates: a Ram HD with all the bells and whistles one would expect; power windows and heated seats, of course, but an extended cab, Traxion Alpha winter tires, and a Cummins 6.7-liter turbodiesel engine.
She liked that it was red.
They had a routine on Friday afternoons: Safeway, then Co-Op for their organics, Frontier Outfitters (there was always something to repair at the cabin; this trip was regrouting the bathroom tile), then to Bucko’s to fill the Thermos with sweetened espresso. She always prepared a manwich for Chief before they left; he was hungry after work and this way they didn’t have to stop for a meal. His favorite sandwich meat was pastrami, and she stacked it high with lettuce, tomato, mayo and mustard on heavy rye bread. It’s challenging to find decent pastrami in Fairbanks; this was the only thing she missed about Vancouver: along with the hustle and grind, there was also great pastrami.
She took care preparing Chief’s food. She loved him, I suppose that was part of it. They had both been married before; shallow, short-lived romances, but long enough to hurt. She had been alone for 15 years when Chief showed up, strolling through the cafe where she served coffee and caramel cake to hungry travelers. She had seen him before, of course; small towns are incapable of hiding much and he’d caught her eye: a large man, tall with a slight belly that caused a small shadow across the belt of his jeans. Long, dark hair he wore in a braid but otherwise clean-shaven, large, gnarled hands, a horseman’s hands, and comfortable-looking Dayton’s. The kindest dark eyes she’d ever seen. His reputation was well-known: a quiet, honest man. Nobody crossed him and everyone trusted him. But, on this day his walk held purpose and intent: Can I take you to dinner, he asked. She smiled, in fact, giggled; she hadn’t been asked out on a date in over 10 years. Pickings were slim in Fairbanks. “I’d like that.”
Dinner turned out to be linguine with spicy chorizo, sauteed with fennel seeds and topped with fresh spinach and tomato sauce that Chief himself had made in his small, tidy kitchen. He had also produced a bottle of red wine, Apothic, and two slices of chocolate torte with cherries. She wondered how he’d gotten his hands on such delicacies as she sat in bewilderment over the red and white gingham curtains and the tapered candles. They’d been together every day since.
The cabin at Paxson Lake was small. Cozy. It was Chief’s cabin and, until she had come into his life, more of a hunting lodge. He often said, in their early days, how all it needed was a woman’s touch. It needed more than that, she thought, but it had beautiful bones: a fireplace hand-made from river boulders, 12′ ceilings with solid oak floors and doors, a wood-burning stove for cooking and here, yellow and white gingham curtains. It sat 500 feet from the lake and during the fleeting summer months up here, the highlight of her day involved following the gentle, sloped trail down to the lake hand-in-hand with Chief, picking their way through the paper birch and quaking aspen. White spruce. Balsam fir. She loved the trees here, the tamarack with its spell-binding red cones, the lodgepole pines, virtual giants of the forest. She felt mesmerized, looking up. Chief always took a quick dip in the lake; she never could and was amazed he didn’t turn into an instant ice cube. The summers were never hot and fires in the evening were de rigeur here, even through August. They fished. Man, did they fish: salmon, char, trout, halibut. They canned most of it, shared with friends. They chopped wood for the fireplace and the stove. Well, honestly, Chief chopped wood while she watched; sometimes she would walk over and kiss him, squeeze a bicep. Smile. He smiled, too. She cooked delicious meals, lentil stews and ginger chicken, strong coffee, and baked bread and muffins. It had taken her a couple of weeks to learn how much wood was needed to attain and maintain a certain temperature; now, she was skilled. They never ran out of red wine and one of the pleasures they shared was trying new wines everywhere they traveled together and buying 2 of each: one for home, one for the cabin. She served delicious herbal teas with honey at night, when they would sit on the dock and watch the sky, the comets, nebulae, and stars and in the winter, the breathtaking aurora borealis. Days at the cabin were spent in a state of endless inner joy and contentment as if this were the life she was meant to be living and it must be true because the days flowed into whispering tender nights. Disagreements were rare.
She and Chief had discussed children a year or so into their life together. They both decided it just wasn’t in the cards; they were both in their mid-40s and besides, children had become decidedly expensive these days. There was no sense of loss. Instead, they bought a puppy. Chief had a dog already, an old, tiny chihuahua he named Doris. Doris walked slowly now and probably had arthritis; they kept a sharp eye on her whenever they were in the bush and kept pace with her. A slow pace. On their first anniversary, Chief presented her with a chihuahua puppy whom he called Cuddles, after Doris Days’ frequent costar, S. Z. “Cuddles” Sakall. She loved the name. She loved Chief’s sentimental nature and took care to nurture it.
They were almost there. It was dark now and the snow lit up the forest on either side of the road. Doris and Cuddles snored lightly in the little round bed they shared between her and Chief. The long drive always made her feel sleepy and after removing her Sorels, she would tuck her knees under her, wrap her arm around Doris and Cuddles and place her hand on Chief’s thigh. They traveled like this until they reached the cabin, the music low, quiet conversation. Warmth. Safety. This is where she belonged.
Pulling into the drive by the cabin always made her feel relaxed. Finally, peace away from town. The snow crunched under her feet as she toted their groceries into the cabin. Chief was already starting a fire. The cabin was freezing and Doris and Cuddles sat next to him, shivering despite their tiny sweaters and awaiting the whoosh of warm flames. She started a small fire in the stove and began to prepare tea. She kept her coat on; it was impossible to relax until the fire was roaring, but the cabin was tiny: a kitchen, bathroom, bedroom and small sitting area near the fire. Enough room for all their love, she thought. It warmed quickly. She heated butternut squash soup on the stove, sprinkled mint on top and whipped up some canned salmon sandwiches. Their salmon. The fire was roaring in no time and they ate dinner together in comfortable silence. She played some music, Rufus Wainwright. He wasn’t Chief’s favorite, but he had promised he would learn to love him as much as she did.
After dinner, she did dishes while Chief finished unpacking the truck. He worked up a sweat and halfway through traded in his parka for a flannel workshirt and vest. The night was so clear; the stars exploded in the sky and the moon was full. It was a beautiful night. She and the dogs watched him from the window, his breath a swirling fog around him. He caught sight of them and waved, then stuck out his tongue to catch a snowflake. They both laughed. The snow had eased up and would soon stop.
Warm tea and a game of Scrabble awaited Chief when he came in. The woodstove had heated the hot water tank and Chief had a quick shower before returning in his winter night clothes: long thermals, woolen socks and slippers, and a terry robe. She combed his hair through and braided it, then served his tea. They listened to music, decided on a glass of wine as well, and then another, and stoked the fire. They shared stories of their week: Chief’s coworker at the shop, Frank, was a bit of a womanizer and she loved hearing the latest stories of his attempted conquests. They had fixed him up once with Arlene, her best pal from work. They had gone out for dinner and then to Chief’s for wine and Pictionary. Frank had gotten overly drunk, falling out of his chair and into Arlene’s lap, spilling her drink and then continuing onto the floor. They had all laughed, but she felt embarrassed. They still got together occasionally but as friends. Arlene had been married once before, too. That was enough. She told him about the trucker who had come into the cafe and told her he had won the state lottery the week before; he and his wife were still trying to decide what to do with the winnings. He thought he would keep driving until they decided.
At 11 o’clock. she mistakenly yawned. They both laughed, knowing what it meant. Chief took the dogs out for a final pee: Doris would take two stilted steps in the snow, pee, and then Chief would pick her up and put her in his jacket while they waited for Cuddles. Cuddles sniffed around the tall pines at the side of the driveway and did his business, then trotted over to Chief and followed him up the stairs and inside. In bed, they all slept together: Cuddles deep under the covers and Doris curled in a ball in her sweater at the top of the pillow, next to the window.
She awoke suddenly around 3 am. She guessed at that, judging by the moon cast. She opened her eyes to see Doris looking at her. Then, Doris barked lightly, staring intently at her, questioning. From the corner of her eye, she saw movement, were those people? They were, 5 of them, and they were sniffing around the truck, trying to open the door. She could see as clear as day: a couple of them were armed, the gun barrels glinting in the moonlight. She nudged Chief, but he was already awake. He reached for the pistol he kept in the side table. She whispered hard: NO. A plan had already formed in her mind: head for the cellar. The door was under the kitchen table hidden by a multi-colored scatter mat, but even without that, the line of the cellar door would be almost invisible as it blended with the wooden floor. They could just go down into the cellar, wait it out. Let them take what they wanted. There was nothing of real value in this house besides each other and the dogs. Everything else could be replaced. If they could just get down there…
She grabbed for Chief’s nightshirt, tugged at it, mouthed NO. He looked at her. She knew in that instant he was going, and he would be lost to her forever. She lay, frozen with fear. He crept through the living room, slowly opened the door, and he must have gone down the stairs because there he was at the bottom of the stairs, pistol drawn and already shooting. Two of the five went down and for a moment she breathed in hope. But, then, from the front of the truck, a thunderous shot, and Chief was down. He lay there, dying, as a red swirl formed at once from beneath him. A small red spot appeared through his nightshirt, above his heart. Chief’s great, big heart. He lay motionless, his hand still raised, holding his pistol. Time stopped. Cuddles began to bark. She exhaled, and an icy dread gripped her deep inside. She looked down to see the bearer of the shotgun, a young woman, her hair tied back in a braid. Their eyes met. The girl smirked, turning to walk toward the back of the house. The two others followed. She could see only the girl was armed. There was a pistol in the snow beside one of the young men who had been shot. Chief was still holding his pistol. She guessed the two men following the young woman were too stupid, or lazy, or both, to pick up either one of those pistols. In a flash, Doris and Cuddles were in the wood box, lid closed. They both began whimpering but there was nothing she could do for them at the moment. For a second, she wondered what would happen to them if anything happened to her. She chased the thought away with the same speed she used to throw on her socks, no time for boots. Out the front door, she crept towards Chief. Oh god, he was gone. No. Please, no. Yes. He was gone. He was gone. His eyes were vacant, staring skyward and she hoped the stars and that fat moon were the last things he saw as his soul spiraled heavenward. He was still warm as she pried the pistol from his hand, then crept alongside the house, taking care to avoid the moonlight. They would be looking for her and she breathed into her nightgown, hoping her breath wouldn’t be seen. Gingerly, she crept. slowly towards the back of the house. From the same window that framed the last breath of her whole world, she saw the light go on in the kitchen and heard laughter. The dogs were silent and she uttered a silent thank you to whatever gods were watching over them this night.
She could see shadows, moving slowly. They were looking for her, no doubt. Checking the closets, under the bed, soon they might open the wood box and what would these animals do to Doris. To Cuddles. She felt tears sting her eyes and blinked them away. Rage, after all, would produce the most favorable outcome on this night. She could cry plenty after this was all over.
Up the back stairs, she crouched, peered around the corner. They were all in the kitchen, calling, “Hey, bitch,” and laughing, opening cupboards.
“She’ll die out there, in her nightie,” the young woman sneered, with an emphasis on the world nightie, and the two with her laughed. One of the young men had the fridge open and was sticking his fingers in the leftover soup then licking them. She couldn’t see the other one; he must be near the front of the house. The woman was clearly within her line of sight, a completely careless criminal, making unsafe assumptions. She seethed in silence and felt her blood boil. She heard Cuddles whimper; he must have picked up her scent. She took the pistol in both hands and, holding her breath, turned the corner.
Several years ago, Chief had taken her to a rifle range to shoot handguns. She didn’t believe in guns and was hesitant.”When would I ever need to shoot a handgun?” she had asked him. He had smiled at her. “You just never know,” he had said and, because she trusted him, she gave it her best shot. She turned out to have a pretty good eye and that’s when the competition between them started. After every round, they would pull in their targets and compare them. She never got as good as Chief, despite her best efforts, but she was content with that. She shot a Desert Eagle. She shot a .450 Magnum (she would never forget the shudder that went through her entire body) and a Smith & Wesson Model 29 and several Glocks. She had felt comfortable with the Glock and Chief had purchased one for the cabin. This was what she was holding in her hand at this moment: a Gen 5 Glock 17.
One of the things that always amazed her when she shot a gun, any gun, was how fast the bullets travel: 2500 feet per second. So, say your target is 12 feet away. Imagine how fast that is. A blink. That’s exactly what she did. She squeezed the trigger, then blinked. The body dropped with a thump. There was a brief, deafening silence followed by intense activity. Cuddles and Doris started barking. Poor Doris, with her raspy old voice, her barks were more like gasps. What would she do without Chief? The young man turned from the fridge and moved to grab the shotgun laying mere feet away.
“Don’t even think about it.” Her voice was raspy. “I’ll drop you right where you stand.” She heard the front door slam followed by the sound of someone falling down the stairs. Then, silence. He was either running, paralyzed or dead at the bottom of the stairs. None of that mattered. The young man in front of her began whimpering, Oh, god. How pathetic. “Please don’t kill me. I, I…” then some inaudible groans and whimpers. His arms were raised above his head when she walked toward him and smashed his face with the cold steel butt of the gun. He struggled, grabbing at her arms, her hands. She had the strength of five Chiefs and he was no match. She kept on smashing until he fell and she fell with him, smashing until his face was nothing but a bloody pulp.
She got up, walked to the front door and looked outside. The young man was gone, his tracks leading through the snow and away. He must have been injured: the stair railing had broken off and was lying in a heap, like toothpicks near the stairs. She closed the door, locked it, checked on Doris and Cuddles. They were shivering, whimpering, wagging their tails. She picked up each one, kissed the tops of their soft, little heads and placed them back in the woodbox. She saw blood on them, panicked until she realized the blood wasn’t theirs. It wasn’t hers either and she realized she needed to freshen up. She double-locked the doors and windows then rinsed off in the now tepid shower water and quickly dressed. She looked in the mirror: she was a hundred years old and she quickly snipped a 6-inch lock of her hair and put it in her pocket. Back in the kitchen, the dead girl had turned grey and the blood from her head wound had congealed in a small puddle around her head. Like Chief, in death. She was certain: nothing like him in life.
She dressed warmly, threw a few tins of salmon into her bag, along with a can-opener, some water, and three apples. The story she would tell the police began to formulate in her mind. The boy with no face, how would she explain that? And questions: why did the remaining trio not take the truck keys and skedaddle, since it seemed to be the truck they were after in the first place? Why did she not do the same? Thank goodness the drive was long. She picked up the pups and started the truck to heat it up, placing the bag on the passenger seat and Doris and Cuddles in their bed. They snuggled together, grateful for the blasting heat. The last thing she did before leaving, was to move Chief’s body to the side of the drive. This was not easy. He was a giant man, solid. She had to move him, limb, limb, torso. He was cold now and her tears froze instantly to her cheeks. She kissed him, then, and placed the lock of her hair into the front of his nightshirt, now frozen.
She felt empty as a drum as she backed out of the driveway and began the long drive to town.
peace
My Little Soapbox 