Julie Weary

CHAPTER ONE

I’d been consoling myself with food and drink (mostly drink) and now the cupboard was bare: peanut butter, cling peaches, chicken noodle soup, gone; George’s little orange cheese crackers and Toasted Head chardonnay, gone and gone. The only thing left was a jar of spaghetti sauce with a lid that would not budge. Testament to my helplessness, I’d hidden it away in the broom closet because the sight of it made me cry.

Lost, alone, abandoned in Wisconsin’s Last Wilderness, as our tiny town of Winegar is so aptly called, all I could think about was returning to civilization. Everyone said that it’d just take time. But no one said how much. It’d already been two months since George died: time enough to learn that living without him was going to take friends, courage and money, and I was lacking in all three.

Around ten, that morning in May, I tucked my hair up, under George’s red, U. of Wisconsin ball cap, hid my puffy eyes behind a pair of Goliath-sized sunglasses and loaded Harriet, our yellow Lab, into the Subaru for a trip to the market. When we left Grand Manitou, our little condo community in the woods, the swings near the entrance were empty. But when we returned, they were not. I stopped to watch a little girl, five, maybe six, wind herself up in a sort of chain link cocoon, rising higher and higher until just the toe of one muddy, white rubber boot touched the ground. Then closing her eyes, she lifted that boot, broke her tenuous connection to earth and surrendered to the thrill of centrifugal force. Two long blond braids sailed out from her head like wings, and seeing this, I smiled. I’m partial to girls because George and I never had any, only boys, and for that I blamed him. I’d wanted one last chance to try for a daughter, and he hadn’t given it to me.

In any case, there’s a wonderful moment in young lives—the moment right before the broken wrist—when many believe they can fly. I, familiar with that moment, kept my foot on the brake, fearful the girl would suddenly leap off the swing and into the path of the car. Lots of kids come and go at Grand Manitou, especially during the summer months, and even though I had a glancing acquaintance with many of the young “Manitousians,” as we called ourselves, I didn’t recognize that one, and neither, evidently, did Harriet, who poked her wet black nose out the backseat window, trying to get a good whiff.

I rolled down my window. “Hello there! I’m Mrs. Thane, rhymes with pain. Who are you?” The girl ignored me, went right back to her winding. Despite cheeks chapped to the color of raspberries, and a rope of mucous running from nose to lips, the child was a beauty, one as rare as the albino deer that’d been spotted in the area recently. But her eyes, the same deep blue of a cloudless sky, looked as vacant as Dick’s, George’s prize buck, whose head hung above the fireplace in the cottage.

“Where’s your mother?” I shouted. She responded with a glance over at June Bug Cottage, one of the smaller ones up near the road, belonging to our caretaker, Walter. An old, metallic green car of some sort was parked outside with a black and silver sticker on its rusty back bumper proclaiming: Snow Makes Me Wet! “So, your mother’s a friend of Walter’s?” I asked, and when the girl, now only seconds away from lift off, still didn’t reply, I shook my head, eased my foot off the brake and continued down the hill, left to ponder the nature of Walter’s love life.

Little Firefly, George and my cottage, was, ironically the largest of the seven that made up Grand Manitou, and closest to the shores of Papoose Lake. There was also June Bug, as I’ve mentioned, Ladybug, Cricket and the Flies: Butter, May and Dragon. I pulled up and sat there frowning at George’s antique canoe paddle hanging above the backdoor. “God almighty, George,” I said. “Who, in their right mind is ever going to buy this place?”

I talked to my husband, almost as much as I did when he was alive, and I knew what he’d say, and I knew how he’d say it: I’m not a fortuneteller, Marjorie. I’m a professor of logic at a state University. Then he’d ask me why I’d even ask him a question like that when I knew, perfectly well, that he was dead set against selling Little Firefly.

I threw the car into park. “It was more of a rhetorical question, George,” I replied.

I got out and opened the hatch for Harriet. Harriet, who was sniffing at sixty in dog years—about my age, and five years younger than George—took off after a mischievous red squirrel we’d named Vince, due to one nibbled off ear. I gathered up as many plastic bags as I could, climbed the steps to the backdoor and stopped, as if waiting for George to materialize. Finally, sighing loudly, I put down the bags, freed my fingers from all those tight, twisted loops, dug out the key from my purse and unlocked the door. “This is for the birds,” I muttered, staggering into the kitchen.

You’ll get no argument from me, Marjorie, I heard him reply.

I was putting the groceries away when I found the receipt in the bottom of one of the bags, and it was a real doozy, must’ve been a good three or four feet long. I’d never paid much attention to the length of those things, or the little numbers written on them either, but now that was going to have to change. Forcing myself to unfurl it, I slid a finger down, down, down, past the total, straight to the savings: $3.72, and smiled. This was just the sort of economic “vigilance” Vern, the guy at the bank, had in mind.

He'd “reached out,” the day before, to tell me he was sorry George had died. Oh, and while he had me, maybe it was as good a time as any to talk about the future.

I’d shaken my head, forgetting he couldn’t see me. “I have no interest in the future, Vern. Not one without George.”

Vern had tried to be sympathetic, but his “fiduciary responsibility,” had gotten in the way.

“A budget? What’s wrong? Did George take it with him after all?” I’d laughed a nervous little laugh—ha, ha—and moved into the great room where I’d collapsed onto the sofa, picked up the needlepoint pillow I’d made for George’s back—If you shake the family tree, a few nuts will fall out—and smelled it.

“You’re aware of the medical bills…” Vern had said, as if he was pretty sure I wasn’t.

“Of course,” I’d replied. “Removing part of a heart is not cheap, or safe, as it turned out, and, yes, just our luck, George was six lousy weeks away from Medicare.”

He’d rattled off some figures.

“Those are some mighty impressive math skills, Vern,” I’d said. “I guess that’s why you’re the banker and I’mthe…the—” I’d closed my eyes; just the word pained me. It felt as if that was all I was now—not woman, not wife, not mother; just that: the one left behind. I couldn’t say the word, hadn’t said it yet; maybe I never would. Wasn’t I too young to be a…a you-know-what? “I will be vigilant, Vern,” I’d gone on. “Actually, I’m planning on selling Little Firefly, going back to Madison and getting my old job back at the Pioneer Press. That should set your mind at ease.”

But never mind Vern’s mind; mine was decidedly uneasy. I felt like a traitor. I’d promised George, on his deathbed, which we’d really hoped it wasn’t, that I’d keep Little Firefly in the family. “And George left me a nice little nest egg,” I’d thrown in, “for, you know, emergencies…which this isn’t…right?”

“Well…no,” Vern had admitted.

“Then don’t scare me.” I’d thanked him for calling, hung up and moved slowly back into the kitchen, as if navigating through a dense fog, to park the phone in the charger. (Yes. We still had a land line. It was far more reliable than the internet in an emergency, and believe me, we’d had plenty of those.) What had Vern actually meant by “vigilant.” How “vigilant” did I have to be to not lose everything—that is, lose even more—and become homeless?

I crumped the receipt into a tight little ball, tossed it into the garbage. Collapsing onto a kitchen chair, I dropped my head into my hands. “How did this even happen, George? No life insurance. No health insurance, not anymore. A tiny pension and a little in savings, but I thought your Social Security would make me feel slightly more…you know, secure.”

Suddenly, I found myself out at the car, flinging open the hatch, tearing into a new case of Toasted Head. I grabbed a bottle by the neck and yanked it out. Harriet, done cavorting with Vince, followed me into the cottage.

“You’re very good,” I told the dancing bear on the label, “but very expensive. So, I’m going to have to ration you, and make you last.” Quickly, before I could change my mind, I stashed the bottle away in the fridge. Then I wandered into the bedroom, came out wearing George’s Green Bay Packer sweatshirt, took a spin around the great room, fluffed the couch cushions, straightened a picture of a raccoon, and was on my way back to the kitchen when I heard a knock on the door.

I moaned and ducked out of sight. But curiosity got the best of me. Keeping low, I slunk over to the backdoor and peeked out the window. There was the little girl from the swings, gripping a pink plastic lunchbox in one hand, and the hand of a tall, shapely blond in the other. The woman was wearing a fire engine red sweater that appeared to have shrunk a size or two in the wash, cut low enough to reveal a tiny purple violet tattooed above her left breast; black jeans clung to her like a second skin. There was just one flaw that I could see: a smooth white scar, about a half inch long, sat, like a half-moon, atop her right cheekbone.

I opened the door. “May I help you?”

“You bet!” the woman shrieked. “I’m Lorraine Jelinski. And this here’s my baby, Skye. We’re stayin’’ up in June Bug…for now…long story. But I was wondering if maybe, just this once, you’d look after Skye?”

I shook my head. Didn’t she know my husband had just died, that the world had spun off its axis? “I’m sorry,” I said, “but this is really not a good time. You see, my—”

“Please.” Hearing her mother’s desperation, the girl frowned up at her.

“I really am sorry.” As I started to close the door, Lorraine slid the highest-heeled, flamingest-red shoe I’d ever seen between the door and jamb. “Pretty please.”

I sighed. “Why me?”

“Okay. So, I asked my Dad: Who’s the nicest person here, at Grand Manitou? And he said, ‘Marjorie Thane.’”

“He did?” My eyebrows shot up.

“For reals.” She smiled. “That’s you, right?”

“Yes, but…wait! Walter’s your father?”

“Sure is!” she said with pride.

I liked Walter; both George and I did. He was a quiet man, big and strong—proof that sixty is the new fifty—uncomplicated and honest. George felt I liked him in an indiscriminate way, the way women have of liking men they sense are alone and needy, like stray dogs. But he always had a smile for me, which, I suppose, is easy for a man who’s not the husband, and I think that sometimes George felt a little twinge of jealousy about that. That and the fact that Walter was living the outdoor life, the man’s-man life that George had always dreamed of living, had tried to live, but for which he never quite had the knack…or the strength. Anyway, Walter’s opinion mattered to me, and I needed him now, more than ever, so I finally said, “Okay.”

Lorraine flashed that smile again, assured me that Skye wouldn’t be any trouble at all, said she’d be back “around 4:30-ish.” Then she scurried off as if I’d just granted her a temporary stay of execution.

CHAPTER TWO

“Come in, Skye.” I forced a smile and stepped aside. She lunged forward, stumbling over the threshold, scraping the toes of her white rubber boots across the old pine floor, one painful squeak after the other, leaving a trail of muddy footprints in her wake. Without looking up, she began to speak in a strange, high-pitched voice that made me think the poor thing must be terrified.

“I’m Starrider,” she said. “Starrider lives in the volcanoes of the Congo and eats mostly insects, baloney sandwiches and coffee.”

Oh, boy. I checked George’s watch, his old Bulova, which I’d begun to wear—1:03; we were in for a long afternoon. “There’s nothing wrong with the occasional insect,” I said. “In fact, I’ve swallowed a few myself. Ants, for instance, are considered a delicacy, like caviar, in India. But coffee isn’t good for you. It’ll stunt your growth.”

She replied by zipping her jacket: down, up, down, up, zip, zip; zip, zip.

“So…”

Zip, zip; zip, zip.

“Want to watch TV?”

Zip, zip; zip, zip.

“Skye?”

“Starrider.” Finally, she looked up, not directly at me, but more in the vicinity of my left ear. “Please.”

“Okay, you win,” I said. “Then I’ll be…Cloudgazer. How’s that? I’m Cloudgazer, and I live in…the Valley of the Shadow of Death.”

“No.” She zipped again and put the lunchbox down on the floor, gently, as if it were filled with eggs. Wriggling out of her jacket, she went up on her toes to flip it over George’s old blue windbreaker still hanging on the coat rack next to the door.

“No, what?”

“You’re Squirfu. Squirfu lives in the caves of Cameroon. She eats mostly donuts, TV dinners and—”

“Toasted Head. Do not forget the Toasted Head. Not real human heads, as in noggins.” I smiled and pointed to mine. “It’s a kind of wine…a chardonnay.”

Skye nodded and continued: “Squirfu can puke electricity.”

“Excellent!” I made what turned out to be a futile attempt to high-five. “That should save me a bundle in electric bills.”

She shrugged, kicked off her boots and arranged them neatly, side by side, under her jacket, then looked around, like a little cat burglar casing the joint. When she spotted Harriet, still sitting obediently next to the kitchen table, tail thumping wildly, she picked up her lunchbox and began tripping over to her. But no sooner did I say, “That’s Harriet,” than Skye stopped, and with a panic-stricken look, dropped to the floor and started rocking back and forth, like a human metronome, singing softly to the beat: “Oh, Pokémon! Pokémon! Oh—” She gasped for air. And as thick, painful wheezes filled the room, Harriet looked at me as if to say, “Do something!”

“Are you afraid of dogs?” I asked.

Skye shook her head.

“Are you sick?”

She shook her head again.

“Can you reach your mother?” I checked the Bulova; the afternoon had just gotten longer.

She squeaked out, “No. Too far away,” before the demon tightened its grip on her again. Harriet got to her feet, readied herself for action. And although it’d been a while, mothering is a lot like riding a bike; you don’t forget what to do.

Sprinting into the bathroom, I turned on the shower full blast, boosted the hot water all the way, slammed the door shut and hurried back to Skye. “Save your breath, sweetie.” I slid my arms under her and lifted her off the floor; she weighed almost nothing. She kicked, tried to free herself, but soon gave up. I rushed back to the bathroom, opened the door, eased her down onto the rug, swept back the shower curtain, and closed the door again. As the tiny room filled with steam, I tried to pull her onto my lap, but she wanted no part of that. I told her to relax, to take deep breaths, but it was not until she whispered, “Harriet?” and I opened the door and let Harriet in, that she finally surrendered.

I rocked her like a baby. Her pupils constricted as she stared at the ceiling; her narrow chest heaved and caved with each new breath; her hands were balled in tight little fists. I forced myself to smile, even though I was scared to death. The Bulova was pinned under Skye, so all I could do was watch time creep by, in slow measured jerks, on her watch: a cheap thing with a peculiar yellow creature on its face, and Pokémon printed in raised letters on the pink plastic strap. George and I knew Star Wars, we knew Masters of the Universe, Mr. Rogers, Big Bird and Bert and Ernie; Pokémon didn’t mean a thing to me.

I laid the back of my hand on Skye’s forehead to check for fever, but I couldn’t tell; she wasn’t my child. I knew there was a thermometer in the cabinet over the sink, and I stared up at that mirrored door, as if I could pop it open by sheer will, so the slender stick of glass and mercury could swan dive into my hand, like something out of The Indian in the Cupboard, the boys’ favorite book. But telekinesis is harder than it looks.

Soon the hot water was gone, steam began to disappear, the bathroom cooled. I checked Skye’s watch again, saw it was only 3:07, and gritted my teeth. What kind of mother leaves a sick kid with a virtual stranger? All I knew was: She was Walter’s daughter, and snow made her wet.