Whiteout Page 3

  “I understand that, I really do.” Elaine speared the olive in her drink with a colored toothpick and popped it into her mouth. Her long nails were perfectly polished as always, in the exact shade to match her pale pink lipstick. Her soft blond hair was gently touched with gray, just enough gray left to make the color appear natural. She was wearing a black Chanel suit with a cream, raw silk blouse, three-inch heels and tiny pearl earrings. Even in her own best dressed-for-success suit, Joanna felt like a country clod in the company of her elegant friend. She always did, yet she loved Elaine dearly.

  “I do know what you have gone through,” Elaine said. “I was there with you, remember? And I admire you for having survived with your humor intact.” She looked down and scratched at a nonexistent stain on the black jacket. “I don’t want to see you have a relapse. Without me near to help you.”

  Joanna was deeply touched. She knew how much Elaine worried about her.

  The restaurant was filling up rapidly; it would be a busy night. The ma�tre d’ glided past, leading a party of four to their table. A large red-faced man in a cheap polyester suit, chomping on the soggy end of an oversized Cuban cigar, lurched up against Joanna’s chair, just as she lifted her glass of wine to her lips. She barely managed to save the front of her suit from a good soaking. The man burped in apology. His evening had begun quite some time ago. One frozen glance from Elaine wiped the words off his lips and had the man scurrying after his companions.

  “Boor,” she said with a sniff, signaling to the waiter for another round of drinks. “Okay, so you’re going. I know that I can’t talk you out of it. But your RRSPs.” Elaine was a financial planner; the idea of someone taking the tax hit incurred by cashing in her retirement savings was tantamount to sacrilege. “Can’t you hold on to them? The tax will absolutely kill you, you know.” She snapped her fingers as the waiter foolishly attempted to ignore her.

  “I don’t have any other money. I quit my job, remember? That means I don’t qualify for Unemployment Insurance. I have to live on something, at least until I start earning some money from my writing. The rent from the house will only cover the mortgage and property taxes. And that computer cost me a lot. It was important to get something really top of the line. Once I finish this first job and get paid then I’ll be able to support myself again.”

  Joanna hoped that was true. So far she only had a contract to write one technical manual, for a household accounts program. If more work didn’t start coming in over the winter she would be in trouble.

  Elaine placed her hand on the table palm upward. “But won’t you be lonely?”

  Joanna put down her piece of bread and grasped the offered hand tightly. “I’ll miss you very much, of course. But I really want to be alone for a while. I’m sure I’ll make friends from the homes nearby.”

  At that moment the smiling waiter brought their plates of pasta: artery-clogging fettuccine Alfredo for Elaine who never worried for a moment about what she ate, and pasta primavera for Joanna. She picked up her fork, grateful for the chance to change the subject.

  Joanna worked steadily all through the next few days while the cold rain fell outside her window. Before she could write anything about the software, she had to learn how to use it. The program crashed her computer twice but she got it installed, eventually. She bought another personal accounting program, for comparison. Already she could tell that the other product was much superior to her own. At least she didn’t have to try to sell it. Just write the facts, ma’am, just the facts.

  A week after her arrival, Joanna awoke to the welcome sight of sunlight streaming in through her bedroom window. After only a few days of working and living all on her own she was getting restless.

  Perhaps I’ll take a day off and explore the neighborhood, she thought as she popped a sliced pumpernickel bagel into the toaster. It was time to discover the location of the nearest library. The pile of mystery novels for nighttime reading was getting perilously low. As was the supply of red wine. Time for another trip into town.

  She poured her coffee, placed thin slices of tomato onto the bagel with a dab of Dijon mustard, and then carried her breakfast over to the table. She ate, watching the soft morning light play across the waters of the lake. Encouraged by the warmth of the sunlight, a few small creatures-squirrels and chipmunks and one enormously fat raccoon-ventured out of their hiding places and sniffed about on the rocks and under the trees.

  After breakfast, mindful of her resolution to be tidy and well organized, Joanna washed up her single plate and coffee cup, dried them and placed them back in the cupboard. When she had lived in Toronto with three children and an overly packed schedule, she’d been a dreadful housekeeper. But up here in the cabin she was determined that things would be easier if she kept her small household under control.

  Town and chores could wait; the sun and the forest were beckoning. She pulled on her heavy boots and raincoat, and for the first time since her arrival trudged up the driveway and down the road. The welcome sun was shining in a cloudless blue sky but the ground was drenched and the forest foliage saturated by many days of rain. So many drops fell from the trees that it might as well have been raining again. Joanna pulled up her hood, shoved her hands in her pockets and walked on.

  To her city ears the silence in the woods was total. But slowly, gradually, like a beautiful butterfly emerging from the darkness of the cocoon, Joanna’s senses tuned in to the rustle of wind through the trees, the shifting and settling of branches and the scurry of little animals in the undergrowth. Occasional flashes of sunlight dancing on the blue expanse of water shone through a thinning in the trees, but otherwise she was surrounded by the heavy stillness of the forest. She passed a few cabins, but encountered no other humans. The dark woods were thick with the sweet, rich scent of decaying undergrowth, mixing with a hint of wood smoke that drifted lazily from the chimneys of some of the properties barely visible through the thin, leafless trees. She breathed the fragrance in deeply, and kicked at piles of dead leaves underfoot to hear them crunch. The beautiful emptiness of her surroundings was comforting and once again Joanna congratulated herself on making the move north.

  As she walked, that strange, unnamable, prickly feeling of being watched touched the base of her spine. She stood still in the roadway, her breath caught in her throat and looked about, trying to appear casual. Nothing and no one were in sight.

  A swift, cold wind whipped up the dead vegetation lying in the road so that the colored leaves swirled around and around in little eddies at her feet. The chill air, which only minutes ago had been sun soaked and warm, pierced through her raincoat. Then it was gone, the wind died and the leaves settled back to the ground. Joanna carried on with her walk.

  Had she lingered a moment longer she would have seen a thickening in the woods, a place where the black shadows under the trees formed for an instant into something blacker, something with depth and movement. Then it too disappeared and the forest settled.

  The furious barking of a dog announced the animal long before it rushed out of the woods to stand in the road howling. It was a good-sized dog, tall and muscular and heavily built. Part Malamute she guessed, with perhaps a bit of German shepherd thrown in. The eyes stood out in sharp contrast against the dark face, a strange, disconcerting color. A pale shade of ice blue.

  The dog curled back its upper lip to show off an extremely impressive set of teeth and fangs, and growled low in its throat. Joanna stood stock-still. She had read somewhere that you were supposed to stare an aggressive dog in the eye…or was it avoid all eye contact with the threatening beast? She couldn’t remember. Fortunately the dog dropped the aggressive posture and crept toward her, nose twitching and bushy tail wagging.

  “Hello there,” Joanna said. She was about to pat it behind the ears but hesitated. It could be wild.

  “Rocky, Rocky, stop that! Leave the lady alone.”

  At the sound of the woman’s voice the dog turned and eagerly ran back into the woods. It e
merged again a moment later, this time followed by a tiny old woman. She wore a floppy yellow rain hat with matching slicker and a pair of thick boots that reached almost to her knees and were coated with a liberal covering of mud. A stout walking stick was clenched in one gnarled, liver-spotted hand but her step was strong and firm.

  “Well, hello. How nice to see you again, Ms. Hastings.” The woman held out her hand. “Maude Mitchell, we met in town.”

  “Oh, yes.” Joanna took Maude’s hand firmly in her own.

  “What a nice day. Are you out for a walk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Getting settled in all right?”

  “Yes. I really must be heading back.” Joanna had a tinge of guilt at the thought of how rude she must sound to her elderly neighbor but she could not and would not do anything to stop it. She had come to the north to be alone and recover from clinical depression. She had no desire for anyone’s company and she certainly did not intend to worry about their feelings. “Good-bye now.”

  “If you ever need anything, my granddaughter and I live just through the woods here a bit,” Maude called to Joanna’s retreating back.

  Maude stood in the road for a long time, watching until the other woman rounded a bend and was out of sight. “Not too polite is she, Rocky?” she said to her dog. “Won’t last long around here.”

  Rocky, sniffing lazily at a spot in the road where a family of deer had recently walked, said nothing.

  The days passed in a gentle seam of hard work and quiet contemplation. After a period of initial panic and some writer’s block, the software manual started to take shape. Joanna didn’t like the product but good documentation would help to smooth out some of the rougher spots. She only hoped that she could produce good documentation.

  September moved into October, and as October faded the days were getting shorter and colder. The last scarlet and golden leaves fell mutely from the trees leaving the woods bare and vulnerable, sleeping restlessly as they waited for the first soft light of spring. Puddles of rainwater froze on the porch overnight and the roar of motorboats was no longer heard across the lake.

  The supply of firewood stacked in neat rows beneath the cabin was dwindling at an alarming rate; with a great deal of trepidation Joanna eyed the axe leaning up against a scarred old stump, used, she assumed, for chopping.

  She saw no one for days at a time, unless she ventured into town for groceries and wine. Some days, particularly if it was raining, Joanna didn’t even bother to get dressed, but sat at the computer all day in her white terry cloth dressing gown, a gift from Wendy. After dinner she curled up by the stove and became engrossed in a novel.

  Her oldest daughter continued to call a couple of times a week but to Joanna’s relief she made no further mention of her mother returning to Toronto.

  One evening, after a rare day of bright sunshine and warm winds, when the dinner dishes were all washed and put away, Joanna turned off the outside lights and stepped out on the porch. A combination of clear night and the moon not yet risen created perfect conditions for a display of the heavens. In the east?-west?-the blanket of stars in the Milky Way was so thick it was difficult to distinguish one individual star from another. But in the opposite sky, each star twinkled clear and distinct. The biggest of the stars reflected off the still waters of the lake far below like diamonds resting on a pane of flawless black glass. In the cabin the CD player came to the end and clicked off. The silence was complete. Too soon the cold crept through her thin sweater and Joanna was reluctantly forced back inside.

  She curled up on the couch by the stove, and happily retreated into the delights of her mystery novel. She was reaching for a glass of wine placed strategically within reach on the coffee table when an abrupt gust of wind rattled the old cabin’s joints. Joanna looked up in surprise to see sheets of rain cascading across the windows.

  Now where did this come from? she thought. She placed her book aside and walked over to look out into the night. Trees swayed wildly under the force of the wind. Overhead she could hear the smaller branches tearing frantically at the cabin roof as if desperate to gain entry. Rain fell in torrents; a little stream was already rushing down the hillside in a race to the lake. A flash of sheet lightning lit up the sky over the water; the roar of thunder sounding at the same instant.

  Joanna tossed another log onto the fire. The temperature was dropping fast. She returned to her book, shaking her head in amazement: she had never seen weather turn so fast.

  A light scratching at the front door gently pierced through the noise of the storm. She put her book down once again and listened carefully. Must be imagining it. She returned to her novel. There it was again. Perhaps a neighbor’s cat trying to get in out of the storm. She struggled to her feet and stumbled to the door. The noise stopped. Cracking the door open, she peered out but there was no animal in sight. Joanna returned to her place on the couch. As soon as she was seated the scratching sound started again. Again it stopped the moment she got to her feet. This time she did not open the door.

  She returned to the couch; the scratching resumed yet again, louder and more persistent.

  Joanna put aside all pretence of trying to read. She wrapped herself tightly in a blanket in an attempt to ward off the cold that crept over her out of nowhere. She sat immobile, staring at the door, until the scratching stopped. At the same instant the wind died down and the rain ceased.

  It was a few minutes before she gathered enough nerve to creep back up to the window. The clouds were rolling back as quickly as they had advanced. In minutes the stars again hung soft and radiant in the clear night sky. Heart pounding in her chest, she opened the door carefully and glanced down. In front of the door a tiny puddle of rainwater slowly disbursed into the wooden planks of the porch.

  That night she dreamt about her cabin. But it wasn’t really her cabin, at least not as she knew it. It was early autumn; the leaves were in full color, the air heavy with the promise of a few more nice days before the darkness of winter settled in for good. There were more outbuildings than Joanna had seen. A shed collapsing along one side so that the door couldn’t fit to anymore but flapped aimlessly in the wind day after day; a bit of a lean-to where a car or truck must have parked; a chicken coop approaching its last days of useful life. In her dream she drifted lazily into the shed, the door swinging open long enough to permit her entry. The building was full to overflowing, mostly a collection of rusty, long-unused farm implements. Only a small clutter of garden tools looked to have performed any useful work recently. Mice and spiders went about their business, ignorant of the visitor watching them. Disembodied, Joanna floated out again. A few chickens scratched around in the dirt outside of the small coop, which didn’t offer much of a challenge to any foxes that might wander by. A small patch of garden lay outside the chicken coop, with rows of corn stalks recently stripped of their harvest, turning brittle and golden in the autumn sun. Tomato plants, staked with rough wooden posts and torn up rags, were desperately trying to ripen the last of their rich fruit before the first killing frost. Underdeveloped orange pumpkins and scrawny yellow squash huddled under thick green stalks catching the last of the sun’s rays. A woman in a torn old housedress bent over the largest of the pumpkins and with a sharp kitchen knife sliced steadily at the tough stalk. At her feet, a filthy toddler, snot running in a steady stream from her nose, knees torn and bleeding, dress grimy with garden dirt, held a wriggling worm up to her face for closer inspection.

  Joanna shifted and tossed on the couch as a rattling old pickup truck turned into the drive from the road. Clattering down the driveway as if it were only seconds away from giving up the ghost, it rattled to a stop right where Joanna’s little Toyota should now be sitting, and a gaggle of teenaged boys leapt out of the back. Not much cleaner than the toddler in the garden, they swept down the path and into the cabin. One boy broke away from the others and joined the woman and little girl in the vegetable patch. He pulled the remnants of a clean handkerchief from t
he pocket of his much-patched pants and wiped at the little girl’s face. She smiled up at him and lifted her arms in anticipation. He did not disappoint her, but swung the toddler in a wide arc above the ground. She screeched with delight and the woman stopped her work long enough to smile at them.

  Joanna drifted again and this time she had a good view of the cabin itself. Her cabin, but different. A wooden rocking chair sat on the front porch and a teenaged girl sat there. She tossed her shoulder-length dyed platinum blond hair, and tucked one lock behind her ear. The hair was curled under in a tight pageboy with a heavy section falling over her right eye in the style of an old-time movie star whose name, even in her dream, Joanna couldn’t remember. The girl’s face was thick with pasty makeup and her lips were a slash of bright red. But her bone structure was good and underneath the layers of cheap foundation her skin was clear and she would have been pretty, if she didn’t try so hard. She was dressed in a heavily washed dull green housedress, clearly a hand-me-down by the way it bagged under the arms and across her skinny bosom and thin hips. A red scarf decorated with swirls of blue flowers was knotted carefully at the neck of the old dress, in a hopeless attempt to give it a bit of color, a touch of style. She stared in contempt at the stream of boys as they scrambled up the steps and poured into the cabin, ignoring her in their single-minded search for something to eat.

  A middle-aged man, almost bald, heavily beer-bellied, dressed in a pair of continually patched overalls and a thick flannel shirt, climbed out of the old truck’s cab and made his way to the cabin. He stopped for a moment at the top of the stairs to glare malevolently at the girl in the rocking chair. She stared back, eyes blazing with a cool blue fire, until he looked away.