“Well, we can look at your saw,” I said. “Your T-Bird insured ?”
“Yeah,” he said, “like your boathouse.” I saw what he meant, and remembered again what Steff had said about insurance.
“Listen, Dave, I wondered if I could borrow your Saab and take a run up to town.
I thought I’d get some bread and cold cuts and beer. A lot of beer.”
“Billy and I are going up in the Scout,” I said. “Come with us if you want. That is, if you’ll give me a hand dragging the rest of this tree off to one side.”
“Happy to.” He grabbed one end but couldn’t quite lift it up. I had to do most of the work.
Between the two of us we were able to tumble it into the underbrush. Norton was puffing and panting, his cheeks nearly purple. After all the yanking he had done on that chainsaw starter pull, I was a little worried about his ticker.
“Okay?” I asked, and he nodded, still breathing fast. “Come on back to the house, then, I can fix you up with a beer. ”
“Thank you,” he said. “How is Stephanie?” He was regaining some of the old smooth pomposity that I disliked.
“Very well, thanks.”
“And your son?”
“He’s fine, too.”
“Glad to hear it.” Steff came out, and a moment’s surprise passed over her face when she saw who was with me. Norton smiled and his eyes crawled over her tight T-shirt. He hadn’t changed that much after all.
“Hello, Brent,” she said cautiously. Billy poked his head out from under her arm.
“Hello, Stephanie. Hi, Billy.”
“Brent’s T-Bird took a pretty good rap in the storm,” I told her. “Stove in the roof, he says.”
“Oh, no!” Norton told it again while he drank one of our beers. I was sipping a third, but I had no kind of buzz on; apparently I had sweat the beer out as rapidly as I drank it.
“He’s going to come to town with Billy and me.”
“Well, I won’t expect you for a while. You may have to go to the Shop-and-Save in Norway.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Well, if the power’s off in Bridgton—”
“Mom says all the cash registers and things run on electricity,” Billy supplied, It was a good point.
“Have you still got the list?” I patted my hip pocket.
Her eyes shifted to Norton. “I’m very sorry about Carla, Brent. We all were.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.” There was another moment of awkward silence which Billy broke. “Can we go now, Daddy?” He had changed to jeans and sneakers.
“Yeah, I guess so. You ready, Brent?”
“Give me another beer for the road and I will be.” Steffy’s brow creased. She had never approved of the onefor- the- road philosophy, or of men who drive with a can of Bud leaning against their crotches. I gave her a bare nod and she shrugged. I didn’t want to reopen things with Norton now, She got him a beer.
“Thanks,” he said to Steffy, not really thanking her but only mouthing a word. It was the way you thank a waitress in a restaurant. He turned back to me. “Lead on, Macduff.”
“Be right with you,” I said, and went into the living room.
Norton followed, and exclaimed over the birch, but I wasn’t interested in that or in the cost of replacing the window just then. I was looking at the lake through the sliding glass panel that gave on our deck. The breeze had freshened a little and the day had warmed up five degrees or so while I was cutting wood. I thought the odd mist we’d noticed earlier would surely have broken up, but it hadn’t. It was closer, too. Halfway across the lake now.
“I noticed that earlier,” Norton said, pontificating. “Some kind of temperature inversion, that’s my guess.” I didn’t like it. I felt very strongly that I had never seen a mist exactly like this one. Part of it was the unnerving straight edge of its leading front. Nothing in nature is that even; man is the inventor of straight edges. Part of it was that pure, dazzling whiteness, with no variation but also without the sparkle of moisture. It was only half a mile or so off now, and the contrast between it and the blues of the lake and sky was more striking than ever.
“Come on, Dad! ” Billy was tugging at my pants.
We all went back to the kitchen. Brent Norton spared one final glance at the tree that had crashed into our living room.
“Too bad it wasn’t an apple tree, huh?” Billy remarked brightly. “That’s what my mom said. Pretty funny, don’t you think?”
“Your mother’s a real card, Billy,” Norton said. He ruffled Billy’s hair in a perfunctory way and his eyes went to the front of Steff’s T-shirt again. No, he was not a man I was ever going to be able to really like.
“Listen, why don’t you come with us, Steff?” I asked. For no concrete reason I suddenly wanted her to come along.
“No, I think I’ll stay here and pull some weeds in the garden,” she said. Her eyes shifted toward Norton and then back to me. “This morning it seems like I’m the only thing around here that doesn’t run on electricity.” Norton laughed too heartily.
I was getting her message, but tried one more time. “You sure ?”
“Sure,” she said firmly. “The old bend -and -stretch will do me good.”
“Well, don’t get too much sun.”
“I’ll put on my straw hat. We’ll have sandwiches when you get back.”
“Good.” She turned her face up to be kissed. “Be careful. There might be blowdowns on Kansas Road too, you know.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“You be careful, too,” she told Billy, and kissed his cheek.
“Right, Mom.” He banged out of the door and the screen cracked shut behind him.
Norton and I walked out after him. “Why don’t we go over to your place and cut the tree off your Bird?” I asked him. All of a sudden I could think of lots of reasons to delay leaving for town.
“I don’t even want to look at it until after lunch and a few more of these” Norton said, holding up his beer can. “The damage has been done, Dave old buddy.” I didn’t like him calling me buddy, either.
We all got into the front seat of the Scout (in the far corner of the garage my scarred Fisher plow blade sat glimmering yellow, like the ghost of Christmas yet-tocome) and I backed out, crunching over a litter of storm-blown twigs. Steff was standing on the cement path which leads to the vegetable patch at the extreme west end of , our property. She had a pair of clippers in one gloved hand and the weeding claw in the other.
She had put on her old floppy sunhat, and it cast a band of shadow over her face. I tapped the horn twice, lightly, and she raised the hand holding the clippers in answer. We pulled out. I haven’t seen my wife since then.
We had to stop once on our way up to Kansas Road. Since the power truck had driven through, a pretty fair-sized pine had dropped across the road. Norton and I got out and moved it enough so I could inch the Scout by, getting our hands all pitchy in the process. Billy wanted to help but I waved him back. I was afraid he might get poked in the eye. Old trees have always reminded me of the Ents in Tolkien’s wonderful Rings saga, only Ents that have gone bad. Old trees want to hurt you. It doesn’t matter if you’re snowshoeing, cross-country skiing, or just taking a walk in the woods. Old trees want to hurt you, and I think they’d kill you if they could.
Kansas Road itself was clear, but in several places we saw more lines down.
About a quarter-mile past the Vicki-Linn Campground there was a power pole lying fulllength in the ditch, heavy wires snarled around its top like wild hair.
“That was some storm,” Norton said in his mellifluous, courtroom- trained voice; but he didn’t seem to be pontificating now, only solemn.
“Yeah, it was.”
“Look, Dad!” He was pointing at the remains of the Ellitches’ barn. For twelve years it had been sagging tiredly in Tommy Ellitch’s back field, up to its hips in sunflowers, goldenrod, and Lolly-come-see-me. Every fall I would think it could not last through another winter.
And every spring it would still be there. But it wasn’t anymore. All that remained was a splintered wreckage and a roof that had been mostly stripped of shingles. Its number had come up. And for some reason that echoed solemnly, even ominously, inside me. The storm had come and smashed it flat.
Norton drained his beer, crushed the can in one hand, and dropped it indifferently to the floor of the Scout. Billy opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again-good boy. Norton came from New Jersey, where there was no bottle-can-law; I guess he could be forgiven for squashing my nickel when I could barely remember not to do it myself.