Steve Hamilton - Ice Run

“I shouldn’t have to think about this,” she said, staring at the clothes on her bed. “Not today. Someone should just tell me what to wear.”

“Mrs. DeMarco, it’s so cold in here. Why don’t you have a fire going?”

As I moved closer to her, I could see that her skin was blue.

“Should I wear this one?” she said, picking up one of the dresses. It was all black lace, and looked like it should be hanging in a museum.

“You need to get warmed up,” I said. As I got even closer, I saw that she was shivering. Her medical alert tag hung from her neck.

“Funerals should be on cold days, don’t you think? Somehow it seems fitting.”

“I think you’re right,” I said. “Do you think we could maybe press the button on your tag? For both of us?”

She looked down at it, like she had no idea what it was. “This won’t do,” she said. She took it off, struggling with it as it got caught in her hair. “I think I need the pearls. What do you think?”

“I agree.” I took the tag from her and pressed the red button. I wasn’t sure where the signal would go-if there was a station here in Blind River or if they’d have to come from Sault Ste. Marie.

“I’ve always hated funerals,” she said. “Not that anyone likes them, I suppose.”

“Come on, we need to get you downstairs. I’ll make a fire and get you some hot tea or something.”

I was going to pull the blanket off the bed, but then I would have had to move all of the dresses. That probably wouldn’t have made her very happy. I saw an old handmade quilt folded up on top of the armoire, so I took that down and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“I don’t have time for tea,” she said. “The funeral is in one hour.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t let you miss it. Let’s go downstairs.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

I led her out of the room and down the stairs, staying in front in case I had to catch her. She took each step with care until we were at the bottom. When I had her sitting at the table, I wrapped the quilt tight around her and started looking for the wood.

“I suppose you’re wondering how I’m holding up so well,” she said.

“Is there some more firewood around here, ma’am?” The wood holder next to the stove was empty.

“I think I’m probably a little numb,” she said. “It’s always a shock, no matter how many times you lose someone.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m just looking for the firewood here.”

“It’s out back,” she said. “There’s a whole pile out there.”

I looked out the back window. If there was a pile of firewood out there, it was covered by an even bigger pile of snow.

“Do you have any dry wood, ma’am? Something that might be stored here in the house?”

“I’m wondering if perhaps I’m not entirely surprised,” she said. “That is to say, perhaps this is something that was bound to happen, sooner or later.”

I tried to open the back door. The snow had drifted all the way up to the window. Turning, I saw yet another door on the far side of the kitchen. When I opened that, I saw steps leading down into the darkness. This time, someone had the sense to hang a flashlight from a nail in the wall.

“It’s such a terrible business,” she said. “I think I’ve always known it would come to a bad end.”

I stopped and looked at her for a moment, thinking about what she was saying. I couldn’t imagine which funeral she was getting dressed for. Maybe her own son’s death had somehow forced its way into her consciousness. She closed her eyes and started to rock back and forth in her chair.

“Okay, I need to get this fire going right now,” I said. I grabbed the flashlight and turned it on, saw the firewood stacked neatly, right at the bottom of the stairs. Beyond that was the dead oil burner. I went down to get as much as I could carry, getting another blast of that same old basement smell. When I had a few small logs on top of the paper, I took the book of matches that was sitting on top of the stove and got the fire going. Then I filled the teapot with water and put it on the stove.

“This will take a little while,” I said. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were still closed. I pulled a chair close to her and sat down.

“Mrs. DeMarco, can you hear me?”

She kept rocking back and forth. “What a time,” she finally said. “What a time.”

“What time are you talking about?”

“What a way to celebrate New Year’s.”

“The man next door,” I said. “Jean Reynaud. Is that who you’re talking about?”

She opened her eyes.

“What’s happening?” she said. “How did you get here?”

“It’s okay, Mrs. DeMarco.”

“You were here before.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve called for help.”

I showed her the tag. Then I noticed the receiver unit sitting on the kitchen counter. You press the button, the signal goes to the receiver… which was dead. Even if it had a battery, it probably connected right to a phone line. Which was also dead.

Alex, I thought, you are officially the biggest idiot who ever lived.

“Mrs. DeMarco,” I said, “someone will come to check on you, right? Your day nurse, maybe?”

“Yes,” she said. “Flo will come, eventually. Or the men from the town.”

“The fire will be hot soon. We’ll get you warmed up.”

She looked at me. She looked at my face, the bruises and the tape and the new blood smeared all over my neck.

“You’ve had some bad luck,” she said. “Either that or you don’t know how to stay out of trouble.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m a little tired now,” she said. Her eyes were starting to lose their focus. I put my right arm around her and pulled her close to my body.

“We’ll be okay,” I said. “Just hold on.”

The fire burned. The wind blew. The old woman slept against my chest. The other woman, Natalie’s mother, she was back in the barn, beyond the reach of any warmth at all. Natalie herself… I had no idea where she was at that moment. That was a complete mystery.

“Where are you?” I said. “Where the hell are you?”

The truck came, slipping its way up the driveway. As I looked out the window, I saw an insignia on the front grill that read “North Channel EMT.” The nurse must have found some way to contact them. Two men got out and knocked on the front door. They were surprised to see me open it.

They took us all the way down to the General Hospital in Sault Ste. Marie. I sat in the front seat while one of the men attended to Mrs. DeMarco in the back. On the way, I told the driver to call the police and to tell them that there was a dead woman in the barn behind the Reynaud house and that Natalie Reynaud herself was missing. On top of all that, I had a stolen truck to report, too.

He looked at me, then back at his partner. Then he made the call.

By the time we got to the hospital, the Ontario Provincial Police were waiting for us. The EMTs took Mrs. DeMarco right into the emergency room, but the OPPs had different plans for me. I had to run through the whole story while the doctor examined me. An officer stayed with me while I got my X-ray. As the doctor sewed up the wound in my neck, he told me the gunmetal fragment had just missed a major artery, and that I should officially consider myself the luckiest human being on the planet.

“Yeah, take a picture of me,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll use that as the caption.”

“This other guy was aiming a shotgun at you,” the doctor said. “You’re telling me it exploded in his hands?”

“I think so.”

He shook his head. “I can’t imagine what he looks like right now.”